Wolf by Ears
by D.M.P
Summary: UPDATED 8.2.05! PART 11 ADDED! Sequel to Sin of Lycaos. A struggle in friendship, a question of loyalty and a search for love unfolds, leading to one of the most controversial courtroom cases in magical history: the trial of Remus Lupin.
1. Man vs. Self

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author notes:** I would like to thank the following people: PikaCheeka; my editors Don, Liz and Ilana; all my reviewers, and all the silent readers. On a minor note, this fic contains "D.M.P. fanon" a.k.a. "Lupin's back story" which is mine. On a major note, I started writing this series before Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them came out, and that is the only reason why the "Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures: Beast Division" is called simply the "Registry of Magical Creatures."

Additional information:

Began writing: July 2001  
First posted: Sept. 2001  
Revised: May 2005

WOLF BY EARS

Part One: Man vs. Self

by D.M.P.

Conversation is never easy for the British, who are never keen to express themselves to strangers or, for that matter, anyone, even themselves.

- Malcolm Stanley Bradbury, Rates of Exchange, pt. 5, ch. 3

Prologue

The rain began halfway into Sirius's journey. At first, it was the rumbling clouds spreading over the horizon, creeping closer and closer as he and Buckbeak flew north. Within half an hour, a strong gale had developed, pushing against them. By that time, Sirius hadn't a clue about where he should land. Swooping down into a patch of darkness, he landed in a sparsely wooded forest. Must be a park or reserve.

He had to turn back. Any further and he would be flying into a storm. It was bad enough already - navigating in the dark. Any other complications would make the task impossible. Early in the morning he could do something. But not now. Frustrated, Sirius turned back to Brighton.

Late that evening, he found the door to Her Majesty locked.

"Remus?" He pressed the doorbell and waited, arms crossed. The bleak winter night was at its coldest; possibly the storm would break any minute. Would it be snow or rain? The temperatures were low, but he was sure it wasn't enough for snow. Freezing rain was much more likely. And by hell he didn't want to get stuck outside in the freezing rain.

A few minutes and his patience started to wear thin. "Remus?" Sirius pounded on the door. _Geez, don't let him be asleep now!_ he thought bitterly to himself. The gale winds stirred, heralding the incoming weather.

He sighed. They kept the doors locked for obvious reasons, but this was getting irritating. Sirius jumped off the landing and jogged around the house, checking for any lights and putting the feeling back into his legs. All the shades were pulled down, as usual, but he couldn't make out any line of brightness beneath them. Was Lupin sleeping? He hadn't been in the best shape when Sirius had left - three shots of raw Wolfsbane would do that to a werewolf - and Sirius figured his friend was probably sleeping away the effects at that moment. Perhaps Mary was up?

Sirius circled his hands around his mouth and shouted out, "Hey, anyone awake in there?" A rhetorical question - no one would be able to hear him outside. Sirius gave a deeper, more agitated sigh and let his hands fall down at his sides.

_Plunk._

What was that?

Sirius felt a drop of water land on his shoulder. He reached a hand out to brush it away and another one fell on his head, so cold that it stung. And another. And another... Perfect. If he didn't get inside somewhere soon, he was going to get drenched. All because a certain couple of werewolves had locked the damn front door... Walking back to the front of the house, he said in an annoyed voice to Buckbeak, "C'mon, boy, we have to find another place to roost tonight."

Buckbeak was investigating something in the dunes. He raised his head up and shook the sand from the curve of his beak. "Squawk?"

"Yeah, yeah, quit your whining," Sirius mumbled and hoisted himself up onto the hippogriff's back. By now, the two were close enough to discard the formal bow.

Sirius flicked the reins with the left hand and Buckbeak trotted down the beach (or half-trotted, considering he only possessed a horse's hind legs). "Let's go back."

Buckbeak gave an unsatisfied growl.

"I know, the place wasn't the greatest, but if the roof doesn't leak, it's good enough for us." He spurred the hippogriff to hurry as the raindrops increased. "Remind me to yell at Remus in the morning."

The hippogriff loped down the shore at a steady pace. Overhead, the clouds moved in with the wind. Yet weather sometimes does peculiar things; the overcast sky wasn't thick enough to foreshadow any precipitation, yet scattered drops fell on them, a cross between ice and rain. Sirius could even see the purple-gray clouds parting so that the waning moon showed. One can never tell with English weather. It is as mercurial as a harpy during nesting season: one moment, it's calm and peaceful, and the next it's foul and screeching.

Sirius let a lazy mood come over him. He was slightly put out by the turn of events, but overall, he felt safe. In fact, it was quite reassuring to know that the only worry he had that night was shelter. The past few months, he had been possessed with such fear of capture by the Ministry that it bordered on paranoia. Buckbeak should know; that's how Sirius had gotten into the habit of talking to him so much. Not to mention that close call he had when he was caught in that MLES officer's house while trying to contact Harry. Or even last night with the full moon: Lupin had been bad enough to control when they were at Hogwarts, but throw in a hyperactive pup and the task became near impossible. If Buckbeak hadn't been there, someone could have gotten bitten - or worse. Sirius half-wished that the wolf had chomped Croaker where the sun didn't shine, but that was only his opinion. At the moment, he was only grateful that no innocent Muggle had been on the wolf's dinner menu.

However, last night had come dangerously near to the loss of someone's life. Sirius shuddered at the memory; he had never seen Mary's parents before and was sure he would never see them again. The whole ordeal of the wolf attacking them seemed almost surreal. If Sirius believed in fate he might have thought that attacking them was supposed to be some sort of twisted destiny. At the least the irony gods were having a good laugh right now.

Another surreal aspect was his friend. Sirius had feared telling Lupin of the attack because of what his reaction might have been. He shouldn't have been surprised that Lupin had acted calmly and logically. Charging Ukrainian Ironbellies wouldn't be able to shake him. Sirius figured that after all the bad luck both of them had been through, finally something good might be heading their way.

_B a n g!_

"CRAW!"

Buckbeak reared up on his hind legs – Sirius's grip slipped - Buckbeak was panicking - Sirius slid off the glossy feathers of his shoulders, struggling to catch the reins-

"Craw! Craw!"

Sirius tumbled headlong into the sand. Buckbeak, true to his name, was kicking his knobby claws up and down and beating those massive wings. _Swish! _His talons grazed Sirius´ side, tearing his robes; he rolled out of the way before being trampled.

"Hold it! Whoa boy!" he yelled, getting up to his feet. Buckbeak was in a state true to his equine side: pure mindless fright. Sirius tried to snatch at the reins, but Buckbeak twisted away from his grasp, kicking up puffs of sand and pebbles as he did so. Sirius reached out and grabbed a handful of feathers on the side of the hippogriff's head. "Whoa boy!" he shouted again.

The sudden pain of plucked feathers was equivalent to a side slap; Buckbeak calmed down. Landing on all fours once again, the hippogriff was shaking and snorting loudly to himself. Sirius stroked the creature's beak and head, reassuring him. "That's it, boy," he soothed. "Calm down..."

Buckbeak's wide eyes scanned the beach, his talons still prancing up and down with worry. Sirius continued petting and murmuring until the hippogriff's nervous attack passed. As Buckbeak shook his eagle head, Sirius glanced behind him. The old hovel. "Don't worry, Buckbeak," he said. "I'll see what's going on..."

Buckbeak grumbled, shifting away; he was slightly embarrassed at needing comfort. Sirius, distracted, didn't notice. An uneasy feeling stirred in his stomach. _What was that sound?_ "You stay right here, boy," he told Buckbeak. The hippogriff, sensing his worry, gave him a concerned look as Sirius turned away.

With hesitant steps, he approached the shack. "Remus? Mary?" He knew it couldn't have been anyone else.

Over the years in Azkaban, Sirius had developed a sort of preliminary sense, almost like instinct. Whenever a Dementor would glide through his cellblock, he would be able to tell before it set a bony foot through the threshold. Whenever a prisoner cried out in the dark, he was able to tell whether the grief originated from inner torment or physical pain. After all those years locked up in hell on earth, the least thing he could stand was pain, emotional or otherwise. He wanted to avoid all terrible subjects. It wasn't as if he feared them - Sirius had developed a mental bulwark against fear - but he simply did not want to be associated with the darkness ever again. He could foretell darkness, feel it creep along his skin, but he would deal with it only when it came and never beforehand. That was why, when he approached this shack, he talked like an ignorant fool.

"Buckbeak and I thought we heard something," he said lightly. The front door was ajar, revealing pitch black within. The wind blew and rattled it slightly; Sirius grabbed the side to silence the noise.

"You nearly scared the crap out of us," he continued in that easygoing tone. He opened the door - it gave a hollow _c r e a k_ like a ghostly wail. "I just landed and Buckbeak almost thr-"

The door opened wide, allowing moonlight to fall upon its interior.

Sirius gripped the side of the door, even though his legs didn't feel any weaker. He wasn't scared or shocked by what he saw. For a split second, he thought he was hallucinating. But when the raindrops starting falling into the room and nothing changed, he knew what he saw was real.

Three hushed words.

"Oh. My. God."

The door creaked back on his hinges, blown open by the increasing wind. He glanced behind him. A small, splintered hole pierced the door midway. The hole was something that he had never noticed before because it had never been there before.

His eyes turned back to the scene before him. All he could see was Lupin's backside. He was slumped over, covering her: one arm wrapped around her waist, the other extended forward limply. The gun had slipped from his right hand, which lay in a pool of blood. Her head was visible over his shoulder, her arms around his neck. There was a calm, relaxed expression on her face, as if she was only sleeping.

Sirius found himself backing away slowly, hyperventilating.

_BOOOOOMMMM!_

_An eruption of asphalt and brick. _

_Smoke. _

_Falling debris. _

_Stones from the road pelting him, knocking him down. _

_A blown-up __London__ street. _

_Smell of burned flesh and gasoline. _

_Dead bodies everywhere. People screaming. A cracked fire hydrant spurting water into the air. Peter reduced to a pile of crimson robes._

_The manhole cover ajar in the middle of the street._

_That damn rat. _

_All he could do was stand there and laugh. Laugh like a bloody jackass who didn't know what else to do. Laugh while the Hit Wizards came and took him away. Laugh and see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing except the cruel realization of despair and hopeless..._

His hands were clasped against the sides of his head, as if blocking out voices. He trembled, doubled over, squatted against the door. _Don't laugh now. Don't laugh like you did then, because you lost all sense and control. No, not ever again, don't, Sirius, do you hear me, don't do it again, not now, not ever, don't, no-!_

Swallowing hard, he reached out toward them. A simple touch and the two tumbled apart like rag dolls. The blood was all over.

He averted his eyes from her. How could he do this? Was Lupin crazy? Sirius felt his stomach turn inside out. Impossible. The man he knew wouldn't do something as insane as this. The man who had stayed by this girl's bedside almost every night for the past three weeks wouldn't do something like this.

Was it a setup? Sirius's paranoia was provoked. It could have been Croaker or some other Ministry agent, and this could all be just a government trick...

Nonsense. There was no way anyone could have found out where they lived, or that Sirius was with them. And why make it look like Lupin had shot-?

A strangled chuckle escaped his throat.

Sirius caught himself. _Damn it, Sirius, don't start!_ He fell back against the wall, staring up at the rafters. _Don't think_, he coached himself, _just act._

Stepping over her, Sirius went to Lupin. His eyes were closed as well, but he wasn't hurt. Perhaps he had fainted. Sirius reached over and pressed his fingers against his neck. The pulse drifted in and out, in and out. He was alive.

Moving quickly, he hauled his friend up by the armpits and carried him – awkwardly, since Lupin weighed more than he did - out the door. Buckbeak waited in the sprinkling rain and titled his head. "Craw?" He blinked his orange eyes curiously.

"C'mon." Sirius slung Lupin over the hippogriff's shoulders, and then went back for the briefcase. No evidence must be left behind. In the shack, he gave her one last look, before turning away. He ran outside and jumped on Buckbeak's back. He sat behind Lupin, making sure he wouldn't slip off during the flight, and looped the rope halter through the briefcase handle, so he needn't have to worry about dropping it. "Let's get the hell out of here." He put his heels into Buckbeak's sides harder than he meant to, and the hippogriff squawked loudly.

"Shut up," he growled, snapping the reins. Buckbeak stared at Sirius haughtily and then ran along the sand, gaining speed. Sirius leaned his head against his soft, feathered neck, breathing hard. He still couldn't believe it. His own friend - what the hell did Lupin think he was doing? Sirius dug his fingers into Buckbeak's plumage to keep from shaking.

Buckbeak jumped, taking wing. Sirius lurched in his seat at the take-off, his chest pressed down on Lupin to be sure he didn't slip off. Once established in the air, he straightened up and guided the hippogriff inland towards the suburbs. Buckbeak shifted too suddenly and Lupin began to slide. Sirius took hold of the back of his collar and hauled him up with both hands.

"Hold it there," he told Buckbeak.

The hippogriff, still angry at Sirius's rudeness toward him, flapped his wings harder, jolting the ride. Sirius felt the glossy feathers slip from under his legs - he gripped harder with his knees- a weak arm wrapped around his friend-

Wildly, he snatched at the halter and pulled himself upright in his seat. Lupin was a dead weight, lying like a sack of flour in front of him. "Boy!" he shouted angrily. "What the hell are you thinking!"

Buckbeak's neck did a 180, and he snapped at Sirius. Their seats swung crazily to the left and then to the right, like riding a hobby horse with a faulty spring.

"Stop it!" Sirius yelled, fighting to hold on. "Why can't you behave yourself tonight? What are you, a hippogriff or a dumb bird!"

"SQUAWK!"

Buckbeak was in a fury now. He hovered in the air, trembling, about to give another infamous buck. "Squawk!"

"Well, fuck you!" Sirius screamed. He didn't care if anyone below heard that; he didn't care at all! Fine! Let his world fall apart like this! Let him lose touch with his only friends! He couldn't think logically, only feel. Anger, frustration, sadness, and confusion all mixed together into the potent emotion that could not be named, a feeling that numbed his mind and robbed him of all strength.

He threw the ropes from his hands. "God damn it," he cursed softly, his voice sinking. He put his fingers to his temple. "Why..." He sighed. "Just drop us, Buckbeak." Then, he became silent.

Another insult would have pushed Buckbeak into dumping his passengers mercilessly into the ocean. Yet, this sudden quiet gave the animal a second thought. He rolled his eyes in his fellow fugitives' direction. Lupin was bent over like a stuffed teddy bear: arms drooping by his sides, legs askew, head down. Sirius held onto him like a child clutching a toy: arm fastened around his waist, body held close, head resting against his back.

"Go ahead," Sirius muttered. He was staring blankly out to sea, his cheek pressed against his friend's bloodstained robes.

Buckbeak eyed his riders carefully. Bit by bit, his flying smoothed down, the erratic wings falling back into their rhythmic beat. He gave a sympathetic whimper.

"What is it?" Sirius questioned dully. Buckbeak picked up the end of the rope halter with his beak and offered it to Sirius, who lifted his eyes. "What?"

The hippogriff nudged the reins back into his hand. Buckbeak made some more delicate squawks, and then raised his head, waiting expectantly. Crystallized rain sprinkled upon them as sleet, sparkling in the partial moonlight.

Sirius let his fingers wrap around the worn fibres of the rope. "You're not going to throw us?"

Buckbeak watched his companion compassionately. He nodded his head.

Sirius remained still, letting the strength seep back into him. Then, he took hold of the reins like a cavalry general would, his vision focused on the dark horizon. "Thank you, old boy," he whispered. He cleared his throat and commanded, "Let's try Hangleton."

"Craw!" Buckbeak gave an enthusiastic push with his wings and the three made their way inland.

Night lagged on, and the sleet continued to fall gently. Sirius let the needle-like flakes gather on his clothing, holding tight onto Lupin. As Buckbeak continued his trip north, a lingering question took root in his mind, something that sank him into melancholy: why? Why had Lupin done this? The answer was a mystery to him, which led to a vague, even more disturbing question:

Who was Remus Lupin?

Chapter 1

_Voici Noël, ô douce nuit!_

_L´étoile est là, que nous conduit:_

_Allons donc tous, avec les mages,_

_Porter à Jésus nos hommages_

_Car l´enfant nous est n´_

_Le Fils nous est donné!_

The music floated through the air. The hospital was festive tonight, dressed with gold and tinsel. Yards of green boughs and red ribbons draped the walls. Magical snow fell from the ceiling and formed feather-light drifts that broke up into glittering dust at a single touch. A doctor and his assistant were waltzing exaggeratedly on their way out, lucky to have their shifts end before the night's festivities. A woman with a dignified step walked past them - gliding past the pair as the doctor dipped the nurse - and stopped by the front desk. The receptionist was there, holding a cup of mulled wine and chatting with the young temp dressed in white scrubs. Only in hospitals did wizards forsake their traditional robes; scrubs were easier to move about in.

_"Excusez-moi?"_ the woman asked. "Could you please direct me to the Intensive Care Unit?"

Both looked up at her and smiled warmly. "Who do you need to see, dear?" the receptionist asked in her warm French tongue.

"Madame Claire de Chien-Loup."

"Ah." The receptionist nodded slowly. Her companion said something into her ear and she laughed to herself. The woman waited patiently until their giddy spell finished.

"Just down the hall, through the double doors, to the right," was the light-hearted reply.

"_Merci_," The woman pushed her grey bangs from her face and left.

"_Joyeux Noël!_" the receptionist chirped behind her. The man must have whispered another humorous comment – she heard slightly drunken laughter behind her. But she wasn't surprised at the lax atmosphere tonight; even wizard doctors had to have some fun.

Unlike the adorned lobby, the ICU was stripped of any decoration whatsoever. Past the double doors was the sterile cleanliness common in all healthcare facilities. Even the Bestiary Medical Centre had that odour of medical magic in the air: a cross between over-cooked cabbage and moth spray. Her nose being sensitive due to her werewolf nature, the smell was almost overwhelming.

Entering a second set of swinging doors, she saw him standing in front of the visitor's window. Like most clan members nowadays, he was dressed in Muggle clothes: a deep blue suit with coal black shoes, and a three-quarter length coat the colour of lacquer. A tan hat with a black band covered his pure white hair and a pair of transitional shades masked his eyes. This dark assemblage contrasted with his pale complexion enough to attract the attention of any passer-by. The woman bowed her head gracefully in greeting.

"They are waiting for Monsieur l'Alpha," she said. She did not stand near him, out of respect for his authority. Instead, she looked past the window. There, Claire was laid out on a stiff white cot. She was not hooked up to any devices, not even an IV; magical hospitals didn't need complicated machines to mete out medication or note the heartbeat. A labelled board at the foot of the bed covered all the stats, numbers that constantly changed with the patient's state of health. Alongside it was a clock with an arrow that pointed to message boxes _en français_: "Time for Medication," "Infection Alert," and - in flashing red letters – "Emergency Help Needed Immediately." At the moment, the arrow was on "Stable Condition."

At first she thought he hadn't heard her, but then he responded. "I hate titles," he murmured out of habit. "Whatever happened to just Bernard?"

"Monsieur l´Alpha brings up a moot point. He knows that I have never called him by name. That is how it is done."

He sighed, dropping the subject as he always did, and leaned his arm against the glass. His glasses were darkened against the bright hospital lights, and so it was hard to tell his expression, but it wasn't hard to tell where his thoughts lay. "We used to be so close," he murmured.

Eunice caught on. "Madame used to be close to all of us."

"What happened, Eunice? She dedicates herself to some utopian charity project instead of staying here where it is safe. She loves pandering to those scruffy street wolves as if they are her own family." He propped his head upon his forearm. "I don't know her anymore."

Eunice bit her lower lip. She ran the Safehouse in La Brague herself and did not think of it as "pandering to those scruffy street wolves." To her, the spirits looked well upon those who offered aid to the less fortunate. Tonight, however, she had her assistants take over the work because there were more important matters at hand. "The ceremony starts at nightfall," she pressed. "Monsieur has to be there."

"For what?" He pounded his forearm against the window and turned on her belligerently. "I get the sword, I fight Great-Uncle Léopold, I say a few words! And this is the duty I absolutely cannot ignore?"

His sacrilege shocked her to near-speechlessness. "Do not mock one of the clan's most sacred traditions," Eunice rebuked. "As His direct descendent, Monsieur should know better! Tonight is the Night of the Werewolf. This is the ceremony to acknowledge the wolf spirits and have them bless the clan for their divine blood–"

"Divine blood? Who believes in divine blood anymore-?" Bernard ripped off his tinted glasses and squinted down at her with the red eyes. "This is what divine blood gave to me!" He hit his index finger against the glass at his sister. "This is what divine blood gave to Claire! What do you-"

"Monsieur l'Alpha should not let his temper get ahead of him," Eunice said severely. "It is uncouth for a person of his status." She eyed him coolly with dark brown eyes. "Monseigneur Burgot commented on the warnings Monsieur made toward the British RMC last week. Monsieur should know the clan can not hold true to such petty threats unless the International Council of Wizards approves an investigation, which is highly unlikely. Monseigneur said it was a clear sign of Monsieur l'Alpha´s inability to act appropriately."

He slipped his glasses back on. They were magically enhanced to help his vision in ways beyond Muggle lens; without them, he would be legally blind. "I don't need to tolerate your father's criticism for anything I do, cousin," Bernard said gruffly. "And I don't let any British bastard think that he can mistreat my sister and get away with it."

"If Monsieur continues in this heedless manner, our clan will become the laughingstock of the werewolf community." She frowned. "If it is not already disgraced."

He made no comment.

"Ever since Monsieur l'Alpha was given his title, it was expected that he would act in accordance to it. For six years Monsieur held this position, and what of it? The coffers are being drained away, and our clan members commit any folly that they please. When was the last time Monsieur approved of any marriage into this clan? Monsieur's brother, married to a Weiblich! Now that is simply insane. And himself, so long without an heir or even a wife is unspeakable."

"I am the result of five generations of aristocratic inbreeding," he said with flat sarcasm. "Do I look like marriage material to you?"

"Monsieur!"

"You live in a backwards age," Bernard retorted sharply. "There are no fancy balls, extravagant riches, leagues of servants who pamper us, or peasants who live to grovel. The magnificent villas and manors of the past are reduced to weed-infested plots, sold off to wealthy German entrepreneurs or American technology giants. Oh, all except for that pile of stones in the mountains that you call a castle, lived in by our ancient relations, as old as the time you remember! In the Muggle world, we receive no legal or social privileges, and in the wizard world we never had any in the first place. Our traditions are scoffed at by the secular world and the way of life you speak of does not exist anymore. Nobility is dead."

Eunice took this lengthy argument with a stiff upper lip. Her rebuttal was short but stinging. "And Monsieur's actions turn it into a joke."

A dismissive grunt escaped him, and he stuffed his fists into his pockets. He was more powerful than her, but she was his elder; what she said hurt. Yet he got in the final word. "It is high time we look at ourselves and laugh, Eunice. If you laughed once yourself, then I have done my job."

Bernard headed out the door, Eunice following. The lady knew that she had wounded him and tried to make up for it. "I apologize for my disrespect, Monsieur l'Alpha."

"No permanent damage." he said bluntly.

"Madame is surely going to get better," she added helpfully. "You can ask the spirits to aid her."

"They said that her pelvis was fractured and her lower spine was crushed from her LOCD episode," Bernard said lowly. He walked faster, ploughing through the sparkling snow in the lobby. The receptionist and her intern had disappeared from the front desk, replaced by a balding man puffing on his pipe. He waved at them as they left. He might have said something too, but the blaring holiday music masked his words.

Eunice lifted the hem of her skirt to catch up as he reached the wintry country road. An enchanted sleigh was parked in the stable yard with a pair of Abraxan winged horses hooked up to it. The driver hopped down from his seat and opened the sleigh door, bobbing his head. "Monsieur l'Alpha."

_"Merci."_ Bernard stepped into the sleigh.

"And this is the best facility gold can buy," Eunice said. She climbed aboard the sleigh as well. It wasn't hers, but her father's. "If wizards know magic at all, they will know what to do."

"I spoke to the doctors an hour ago," he replied quietly. "Magic cannot solve all problems. You should know that. The Bisclavret castle," he told the driver.

_"Oui, Monsieur!_" The driver flicked the reins and the horses started forward. As the sleigh sprung into the air, the last words to the carol reached their ears.

_Un Sauveur nous est né,_

_Le Fils nous est donné--!_

Sirius stood in the entrance to the cave, watching the snowfall. It covered the craggy landscape like a layer of frosting, smoothing out the sharp peaks and rough surfaces. In the last hour, it had snowed a good 5 centimetres; by morning he expected half a metre. Did it always snow so much in Scotland? They had arrived there only today. After Sirius had found... Well, after the full moon, Sirius had taken Lupin and left Brighton as soon as possible. A week-long series of town-hopping had ended here, near Hogwarts.

The blizzard wind swept across the frosted hills, sending up twisting whirls of white. Perfect conditions for sledding...

_"Hurry up, Padfoot!"_

_He felt the icy bits prick at his skin, the cold sweat dripping from his brow. The air was filled with puffy white like falling quill feathers; he could barely see ahead of him. The rough weaving of the carpet slid from his hands. He wrapped his arms tighter to keep his grip on the rolled-up rug. Padfoot was placed near the middle, right behind his best friend Prongs. It was Prongs' idea of course - an old family heirloom converted into a makeshift sled. The Persian rug had been disabled when flying carpets were banned in the __United Kingdom__, but his family had kept it around for parlour room decoration. And now it was the ideal time to use it. All four of them were trudging up the hill outside the Potters' home. Even blizzard conditions couldn't stop them from enjoying their holiday. _

_"Are you sure this is safe?" Wormtail asked, bringing up the rear. The carpet fringe blew in his face, and he spat out stray fibres from his mouth._

_Prongs, the leader of this expedition, looked over his shoulder. "Nothing can be safer," he assured, yelling over the blustering gales. "If you don't want to do this, then just say so." He trudged on into the storm, the snow coming up to his knees._

_Padfoot's feet slipped out from under him. "Whoa!" he cried, bowling backwards._

_He landed in Moony's hold. "I gotcha!" He struggled to hold him up. "Whoa... I might not-!" _

_"Wait, I got it!" Padfoot grabbed at the carpet, trying to steady himself._

_"Hey, you're pulling us down!" Wormtail skidded sideways, and then fell. "Ahhh!"_

_He crashed into Moony. Prongs was pulled down last and they tumbled down the slope, shouting._

_"Umf!"_

_"Oof!"_

_"Ugh!"_

_The four boys landed in a heap at the bottom of the hill, the carpet bouncing along past them. For a few minutes, Padfoot was stunned from the impact and the cold. Then he realized someone was shouting beneath him._

_"I think I broke something!"_

_Padfoot checked underneath him to see Moony's mitten stick out from the bottom of the pile. "Sorry, really sorry! Guys!" He scrambled off, as Prongs and Wormtail pulled their causality up to his feet. _

_"Are you okay?" Wormtail asked, brushing the snow off his cap._

_"I think so." Moony coughed up some snow. "What is this called again, Prongs?" he asked wearily._

_"Sledding," he informed them. "It's a Muggle activity."_

_"So, the point is you go up the hill, then you slide down, only to go back up and start over again?" Moony brushed the snow off his coat. His cheeks were flushed and bits of snow still clung to his hair._

_"Well, yes..." Prongs drawled, crossing his arms._

_"That sounds awfully repetitive to me."_

_"That's the whole point, Moony." Prongs, with a determined expression on his face, went after the rolling carpet and took up an end. _

_"Come on, we haven't even gone down yet."_

_"But if it's all going to end up with me having to lug this heavy, wet rug up the hill again..."_

_"Aw, it'll be fun." Padfoot put an arm around Moony's shoulders. "I'm sure Muggles wouldn't be doing this if there wasn't an upside to it."_

_"Compared to the downside of severe frostbite?"_

_Padfoot gave one of his lopsided grins. "If Muggles can deal with it, we can too! Now say this with me: Repetition is fun!"_

_"What?"_

_"Repetition is fun!" He punched a fist into the air. "Repetition is fun!"_

_"Repetition is fun!" Prongs caught on, with Wormtail chorusing with him. Ganging up on Moony, they continued effusively until he broke down laughing. "Okay, okay, I understand." He rolled his eyes, but smiled broadly. "Now hurry up before we freeze in place." _

_Together, they lifted the sodden carpet from the hillside and climbed up, chanting, "Repetition is fun!" all the way, their young voices becoming lost to the wind. At the top of the hill, Prongs instructed them all on how to hold onto the sides of the carpet to prevent them - hopefully - from sliding out of control and falling off. Sirius was at the end. _

_"You have to jump on," Prongs said. "So we gain enough momentum to slide down."_

_"Whatever you say." Padfoot backed away a few metres, pushing against the piling snow. Then, he ran forward, the wind whipping his face. He jumped into the air, arms upraised. "Here we go!" He crashed onto the end of the carpet, bumping into Wormtail. The force was startling - Padfoot saw the crest of the hill - they were up much higher than he thought - the carpet in front of him slid forward - he gripped the edge tightly - his stomach was plummeting - they were going down-_

A snow-laden wind blew inside the fissure. Sirius shook his head, shivered slightly, and went back inside.

Further in the cave, the fire crackled. Most would describe a fire as crackling merrily, especially on a night like this. Smoky would be a better word. The only firewood he and Buckbeak had been able to find was a rotting log fifty metres below, buried under a snow bank. It was the best wood available, so they had spent the better part of an hour lugging it up.

The pale greyish smoke wafted toward his face; he waved a hand to clear the air in front of him. Snuggled up against the wall was Buckbeak, fast asleep. He had already hunted during the day, and his eagle heritage called for early rest.

Lupin was the picture of wilderness survival, roasting pieces of rabbit meat on a stick. The food was Buckbeak's contribution; Sirius now owed the hippogriff more times than he could count. "Supper's almost ready," Lupin said as he turned the food slowly over the flames.

"Great." Sirius sat down cross-legged and held his hands out by the fire to warm them. "It's a blizzard out there," he said. "I hope Pig gets back safely." Pigwidgeon, Ron Weasley's owl, had passed by earlier today to help deliver Sirius's gift to Harry: a penknife with certain attachments to unlock any lock and untie any knot. The present was an ordered one, obtained with help from the tight-lipped, non-discriminating bankers at Gringotts. Neutrality was the quality goblins were best known for.

Lupin opened up his briefcase and took out two tin plates and a Swiss army knife before snapping it shut again. "It's slightly burned," he commented, removing the steaming meat from the stick. "I hope it's eatable."

"I'm sure it's fine..." Sirius took his share and dug in. He had no scruples about eating with his hands, and swallowed the food down as soon as it had cooled. The rabbit meat was tender and hot, practically melting in his mouth. "I give my compliments to the chef," he said. "This is delicious."

"Here's my culinary secret," Lupin said. He leaned over toward him and whispered loudly, "It wouldn't taste as good if we had eaten well the last few days."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "I'll take that into account when it's my turn to cook." He licked his fingers. "Anything to drink?"

"I could heat up some snow. There are probably some tea bags in my briefcase-"

"Don't worry, I'll get it." Sirius wiped his hands on his robes and pulled the case over to him.

"No, let me-" his friend said quickly.

But he had already opened the case and was rummaging through it. Lupin came up behind him. "Sirius-"

"What? I won't break anything," Sirius assured, looking through the contents of the briefcase. He ploughed his way through bundles of clothes, several pieces of camping gear, some medicine, a few old candle stubs, a small Zippo lighter and a number three-iron cauldron.

"I'll take that," he commented, taking the cauldron out. Near the bottom of the case, he found a small package wrapped in gilt paper and tied with a silver ribbon. "Now what's this?" He showed Lupin the gift. "Really, Remus, I'm touched."

Lupin froze at the sight of it and immediately put down his plate. "It's not what you expect," he said hurriedly.

"I'm sorry that I didn't get you anything," Sirius continued, feeling ashamed. That feeling only lasted for an instant, replaced by childlike glee. He remembered his third year at Hogwarts, when his friends all decided to stay there together for the holidays. Lupin had hidden all of his presents around the castle and told his friends to see if they could find their own gifts. Sirius had discovered his in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, hidden under her toilet seat. Myrtle wasn't in the greatest mood ("E-e-everyone's always for-forgets me here-!" she had wailed, throwing wads of toilet paper at him), until Sirius found another gift - a box of scented tissues - that Lupin obviously hidden for her sake. For the rest of his time at school, it was rumoured on several occasions that the ghost's lavatory smelled oddly of roses.

Sirius examined the wrapping of this gift. This must have been very expensive. He wondered when Lupin had had the time to purchase it. But of course he was always full of surprises...

Lupin extended his hand. "Please-"

Sirius faced away from him, fiddling with the ribbon. Technically, he was opening this present a day early, but that didn't really matter, did it? Eve or not, it was still the holidays. "I promise to make up for this tomorrow." With that, he undid the ribbon.

"Sirius," he protested. "Don't-"

The paper fell away. Sirius stared at the present dumbly. In his hands was a porcelain doll adorned in a pink silk dress. Its painted face glowed in the firelight, the glass eyes twinkling. "Oh, damn," he murmured. "Oh... damn..."

Lupin sighed. "May I have that back?"

Sirius, crestfallen, presented the toy to him. "I-I apologize, Remus," he fumbled. "I-I didn't know."

"It doesn't matter." Lupin gently took the doll out of his hands. "I bought this awhile ago, before I knew that I wouldn't need it." He stroked the doll's curly chestnut hair.

But Sirius knew it wasn't a frivolous purchase. He let his hands drop in his lap. "Honestly, how I acted..." He trailed off, not knowing what else to say. "It's quite pretty," he finally added. "She would have loved it."

Lupin bowed his head, saying nothing. The only sound that filled the air was the spluttering of the fire, which was sending up more drifts of smoke.

Sirius knew he had fouled up again. He should have known better than to speak about her. Mary was a subject to be avoided; it was a taboo to even say her name. Lupin acted like she didn't exist anymore, which, in Sirius's opinion, was simply ludicrous. But that man kept everything to himself, and Sirius couldn't pry open his shell. The only time Lupin had ever spoken about her was when he first came to consciousness. Sirius had asked whether she was dead and Lupin, his hazel gaze exuding its humble confidence, had simply replied, "If she had died, I would have died." Sirius wasn't sure if he could trust those words, but that was the only explanation he had ever received.

Lupin brushed his thumb against the doll's delicate cheek. "I'll give it away," he decided aloud. "It's too beautiful to waste." He tucked the doll back into his briefcase and shut it. He picked up his plate again and continued eating as if nothing was wrong.

Sirius's appetite, however, had vanished. He stared down at his share mutely. He wished Lupin would talk. Talk about anything. And not just some flippant comment about cooking meals either, but a real conversation. How did he feel about Mary? Did he miss her? Fear for her? Regret what he had done?

Had Lupin ever talked with her? From the short time he had known her, Sirius knew their relationship had been close. His hands curled around his plate. Had Lupin been closer to her than he ever had been with him? Was the bond between parent and child stronger than the bond between friends?

This empty silence dragged on between them. Sirius had to speak or be crushed by it. "How much do you think it will snow tonight?" he asked casually.

"I don't know." Lupin lifted his head and took a calm glance at the far end of the cave. Was he remembering the time they went sledding? "This cave is very fitting," he commented mildly. "The overhangs will prevent too much snow from packing in, and no one should be able to detect this spot from the outside. Caves in general conserve heat rather well, so as long as the fire doesn't die out, we should be fine."

"Um, thanks..." _Well, that went nowhere._

The minutes passed. "I'm tired," Lupin announced quietly. "I'm going to call it a night."

"Good idea," Sirius agreed.

"Didn't you want to make some tea?"

Sirius had forgotten about that. "I'll be fine," he said quickly. "Unless you want some-?"

"No, thank you."

The blankets were folded up in a corner away from the fire. Sirius took one for him and handed the other to Lupin. "Are you going to sleep by Buckbeak?" he asked. "He's overdue for a bath, but he's very warm."

"I'll just stay here and tend the fire." Lupin draped the blanket over himself and curled up on the bare ground. "Good night."

"Okay then," he replied somewhat awkwardly. "Good night." Sirius came to Buckbeak's slumbering side, folded his blanket in half and tucked himself in.

"Move over, boy," he said, huddling by his side. Buckbeak grunted and flicked his tail in his face. "Ack!" He wiped the offending hairs away and rolled over, facing the fire. His gaze was drawn to Lupin, lying still on the ground. He couldn't be asleep already. Must be faking it.

Sirius felt a sense of loss come over him. Their time together had been marked with brotherly closeness and a stranger's alienation. Mary's presence had temporarily sealed the rift in their friendship, which had only opened again without her. Maybe they had never been close even then, but had held a façade because of her presence. A façade that he had believed was real.

Now, to laugh one moment, then to be silent the next had become day-to-day life between them. Sirius never recalled such inconsistent chemistry, yet his memories were blurred by time. Whatever happened to those happier days when they were younger? Whatever happened to that adventurous boy Sirius had grown up with? Gone, replaced by a greying, soft-spoken man who folded the secrets of his heart away from human eyes.

He acknowledged that nothing could remain the same, but he couldn't help hoping, ever since that heartfelt hug in the Shrieking Shack, that something from his past remained intact: friendship.

An immature thought for an immature person. For, in some aspects, Sirius was still immature, wasn't he? He had been trapped in a bubble, so to speak, for over a decade: time hadn't affected him the way it had others. In Azkaban he had evolved a greater will than before, but he lacked the joys - and the hardships - one experiences from being part of the world. So it had been a childish thought to think Lupin would have stayed the same.

Sirius couldn't even bring himself to speak Lupin's childhood nickname. Moony existed only in his memories, along with Padfoot, Prongs, and Wormtail. How strange it was to recall happy memories of his friends, no matter how much they had changed! But maybe it was because Sirius was stuck in the past...

Did Lupin understand how he felt? That he was looking for the trust and understanding friendship should bring? Or did Lupin just assume that since both of them were friends years before, that would make their camaraderie stable now? If so, Sirius didn't agree with his way of thinking.

He pressed his back against Buckbeak's side, feeling the animal's warmth and watching Lupin shift in his sleep. This didn't comfort him anymore than the sight of land comforts a drowning man. For Sirius was that man, drowning in the sea of nostalgia, but the land that he sought did not exist. All he could see was a man floundering like him, but in deeper, darker waters.

He patted Buckbeak's head and faced away from the flickering light. "Merry Christmas," he whispered.

Chapter 2

The Night of the Werewolf had come and gone, along with the twelve days of required celebration. Claire had spent this time in the Bestiary Medical Centre. She never paid attention to clan traditions anymore, but Eunice had sent her a candle to light and a copy of the ancient chants to call up the wolf spirits to bless her. The candle and scroll were still in their muslin satchel, unused.

With the new year came Bernard's idea that she should live with him once she was released from the hospital. It was a surprising suggestion. Claire had never really thought about living with her brother; the idea wasn't all too appealing in the first place. She wanted to go back to England and try to track down the Freedom Hounds. Possibly they could be with the Gaczyna pack. But making such a request would be impossible. She was unofficially exiled from England, and the Ministry had repossessed her Safehouse. Going back could equal death - or worse. Living with her brother seemed like the only alternative.

_Beeep! Beeep! _

The person in question was driving erratically through the streets of Nice. "Um, when is the last time you driven a car?" Claire asked.

"What makes you think I do not know how?" he retorted. His French had developed a bit of a local accent, which made his words sway.

"For one thing," she pointed out, "in France, people drive on the right side of the road."

The car swerved into the opposite lane. "I knew that."

She didn't really doubt her brother's ability to drive; he was just nervous. After all, he had been making sure that she had been comfortable the entire ride, namely by asking how she was doing every fifteen minutes. By her knowledge, he preferred to live alone; he had moved out of the castle to their Nice property when he had received a job at the Lycanthrope Biomedical Centre. Their father, now long dead, had always pressured him into taking some sort of security personnel, but he had refused, saying that it would draw attention. To sum it up, he lived like an urban hermit and had been happy to stay that way. Until Claire was invited over.

She sighed and stared out the passenger side window, watching the buildings fly by. Soon they encountered the city's infamous traffic, and then she watched the buildings crawl by.

Nice, the aristocrat's paradise. A term coined when the city actually was a rich man's luxury, some two hundred centuries ago. Now what remained were the _rentiers_ that flooded the streets and beaches. As Claire waited for the car to move forward, she watched the various pedestrians mingle on the streets. A few working men in faded blue overalls sat at a café, smoking pipes. Across from them, the latest Chanel fashion shop emitted women wrapped in furs, walking their miniature poodles. Camera-happy tourists wandered around, carrying maps and speaking horrible French, asking for directions to the beach. She watched mutely as a young pickpocket sneaked a hand into the back of one man's shorts, and then darted away with his wallet. Such was the diversity of Nice.

After three-quarters of an hour, Bernard stopped in front of a townhouse in Vieux Nice, a towering, property surrounded by a brick wall topped with iron spikes. By the gate was a prominent sign drilled into the stone, magicked to be invisible to Muggle eyes. _AVERTISSEMENT: RÉSIDENCE DU LOUP-GAROU – _Warning: Werewolf Residence.

With a click of a button, he opened the wrought-iron gates and drove into the courtyard. Bernard got out first and opened up the trunk. Sounds of rickety metal could be heard as he unloaded the equipment before opening the side door. "Let's get out."

Claire sat in her seat, staring out the car door. She didn't move not because she didn't want to, but because she couldn't.

Bernard crouched down. "Ready?"

She nodded.

"On the count of three." Her brother reached into the compartment, slipping an arm behind her back and another beneath her knees. "_Un... deux... trois_!"

Claire wrapped her arms around his neck for support, and he gently lifted her out of the car seat and resettled her in the wheelchair he set up in the drive. Lowering her carefully into the seat, he asked, "Do you need your medication again?"

She shook her head quickly, folding her hands in her lap. Long before, she had vowed never to cry about her condition, especially not in front of her brother.

"Get my crutches," she said tensely.

"Maybe later," he replied. "It's chilly out here. Let's go inside-"

"Get them." Claire glared up at him. If she were standing, her brother would be a head taller than her; from her seat he towered over her like a giant. "Now."

Bernard countered softly, "They are useless, Claire. You remember what the doctors said."

"I know what they said. Please." She waited.

Defeated, her brother took the crutches out of the backseat of the car. They were not the wooden type, but a titanium set with cuffs to slip her arms through. Despite her doctors' orders, she had had them fitted for her. Extreme denial or idealistic hope was the speculative reason shared among the clan members.

Bernard tucked them under one arm. "Got them."

_"Merci."_ Claire placed her hands on the railings outside the wheels and pushed herself forward; she had refused the option of a motorized chair. When they approached the front steps, she ploughed right on. The wheelchair was magically adjusted; the wheels moulded themselves against the cut angles of the stairs and pushed forward, enabling her to climb them. She was first on the landing and watched as Bernard opened the door.

"It's a bit untidy," he warned. He opened the door and kicked away the pile of dirty clothes that blocked the foyer. "I should get around to cleaning," he said sheepishly. "I gave Fifi some time off because I would be in and out for awhile."

Fifi Dubois, Claire recalled, was his portly housekeeper.

He opened the door wider to let Claire through. "Here, I'll take your coat." He took off her coat and his and hung them on the stand in the corner. The crutches he placed in the corner behind the door. "I'm really sorry for the mess. I know I should have had cleared this place out, but this time of year I'm so busy-"

Claire plastered a smile on her face. "This is fine, Bernard." She could see how well he would have done without Fifi. Claire had never visited his home before - the only time they saw each other was during the holidays at the ancestral castle - but she wasn't surprised that her brother had made a mess in only a few weeks' time. One would presume that a wolf who was both a genetics researcher and a clan leader would live in a more organized, sophisticated state, yet his bachelor nature must have prevailed. The front hall by itself was a dump. Piles of cloaks, boots, caps, and other examples of outerwear littered the floor. Unread issues of _Le prophète quotidien_ and its English counterpart lay in stacks against the wall. And above-

"Hoo! Hoo!"

A great horned owl flapped by, shedding a few feathers as it passed.

"Um, that's Pascal," Bernard said hastily. "How did he get out of his cage? Excuse me." He sprinted after him, calling, "Pascal! Come back here!"

While he was gone, Claire examined her surroundings more closely. The townhouse was a tall and narrow three-story affair. The outside showed some visages of Italianate design, and the inside still retained that wealthy taste, despite the mess. The walls were papered in ordinate dark green with fine gold stripes and red trimmings, and a Persian rug of matching colours spread out over the floor. A crystal chandelier still hung from the ceiling. Nearby a carved cherry-wood hall table stood with a mirror. Claire glanced at her reflection, then looked away quickly.

She wondered when Fifi would be coming back. Her Safehouse in London had been much cleaner; Bernard could be such a pig. This mess sickened her, and she felt a sudden urge to start picking up this place. An old copy of _Le garou-loup hebdomadaire_ lay at her feet. She leaned over, trying to move it out of the way, but a sharp pain restricted her. A hand touched the source: the hard metal brace wrapped around the base of her back. She jerked her hand back as if it had been burned.

She pushed down the lump in her throat and folded her arms, biting her lip to keep from crying out. Her wandering eye came to the stack of papers. Bernard must have ordered the Daily Prophet in different languages to help him improve his English, which had always been awful. Out of random thought she picked one up. "Heroic Harry Potter Boldly Faces Challenges of Triwizard Tournament." November of last year.

A lost voice whispered in her mind.

_"This is one of the most ridiculous articles I've ever read in my life. Either I don't know Harry at all, or this Rita Skeeter is grossly exaggerating things."_

_A man sitting across from her at the kitchen table, reading aloud from the paper. His voice was light-hearted, amused... She liked to hear that voice..._

She dropped the paper. What was that? Claire put a hand to her head. It was a starling experience, like erasing clouds that fogged her mind. Must be a side effect of her pain medication- or not...

Awhile back, she had taken a Forget Potion... A spell doctor had been brought in to see her and he said that bits and pieces of memory would come back to her. Had that been a memory, triggered by that newspaper article?

Her heart jumped at the thought. She grabbed another paper, hoping to be hit with recognition. Nothing. Claire shifted the wheelchair to face the newspapers and began tearing through them like a woman possessed. She remembered something; she had to find out more! The banners flashed by her eyes. "Minister Supports Tax Cut." "Twelve People Killed in Dragon Attack." "Floo Powder Prices Reach All Time High." "Manufacturers Protest New Broomstick Regulations." "Bridge Declared Dangerous - Troll Lair Found." The papers revealed nothing more to her. Claire threw the handful down in frustration. Why couldn't she recall anything?

Claire observed the horrible mess she had made around her. Great. Now she had to clean it all up before her brother got back. Claire dejectedly picked up the crumpled pages one by one, trying to smooth them out into a neat stack. Other sheets were scattered on the ground, beyond her reach. She sighed, picking up an issue she hadn't touched before.

"Muggle Girl Found Shot in Brighton," read the banner.

Bernard came rushing back at Claire's outcry, with Pascal flapping on his arm.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I am- I am all right..." She put a hand to her forehead again. "Just tired..."

"I am sorry to keep you waiting," he said, his ears rather pink. "Oh." He leaned over to gather up all the papers on the floor. "This must have toppled over..."

_"Oui,"_ Claire agreed. "They did."

"It's not always this messy," he went on. "Fifi's returning tomorrow anyway." Pascal struggled against his jesses, hooting loudly. "Pascal still needs a bit more training before I can send him out. He flew in only last week, since old Aristotle isn't coming back..." Bernard paused for a moment, as if observing the loss of the poor owl that had never returned from delivering - or attempting to deliver - his taxes.

Pascal gave a loud cry and threw himself from Bernard's arm. "Oh! You hungry?" He fished out a dead mouse from his waistcoat pocket and dangled it in front of Pascal's beak. "You want this, eh? Eh?" The owl settled back down and accepted the mouse happily. Claire wondered if her brother always kept dead mice on him.

"That's a good bird." He patted the owl on the head. "I'll show you to your room, Claire." Bernard headed up the stairs. She followed silently, a rolled up newspaper tucked behind her.

The second floor was much cleaner than the foyer, but the mass of hall tables, vases, and busts still blocked her way. Bernard had to push things out of the way, muttering apologies under his breath. His puttering around actually gave her some time to see all the giant paintings that were displayed on the walls. Several of her past ancestors, including her great-grandparents (passed away after the Revolution of 1848) and her grandparents (died after the Second Muggle World War), adorned the walls, their quiet faces staring out from the oil and canvas. Their clan had always preferred Muggle painting to magical.

Bernard came to one of the doors. He tried turning the handle, but it wouldn't budge. "Hold on." Bernard tried again, but to no avail. "Wait, I can do this." He rammed his shoulder against the door, bursting it open. He fell into the room. Pascal flailed about, the half-swallowed mouse caught in his airway. Claire came into the room and thumped him on the back, and the half-eaten rodent popped out of the bird's beak.

"Oy..." Her brother groaned and adjusted his glasses. "Well, here it is." He sprung to his feet and moved out of Claire's way. "I hardly use it." He picked up the mouse off the floor, wiped it on his jacket sleeve, and presented it to Pascal, who had climbed back onto his arm. "Here you go."

Claire came up to the bureau. "I can tell," she said, wiping dust off its top. The room was quite spacious and coloured with blues and whites, with a canopy bed, several empty bookshelves, and a washstand.

"I'm sending your things and all the Safehouse files over. You could set up your charity business here."

"How is that possible?"

"I hired a service to clean out your office."

The alarm bell went off in her head. It was good that the Ministry would keep its dirty paws out of her business, but what if someone found her spell books? Or anything else... Any wizard who reported that... Instead of being grateful, she asked, "Are you shipping them by courier?"

"Owl Express." Bernard punched the bed pillow and a puff of dust rose up. "These sheets might need to be washed." Pascal sneezed, dropping his mouse again.

"When will they arrive?"

"In a couple of days." He pointed to the front of the room, where a coarse curtain covered a pair of tall glass doors. "There's a balcony here." Opening them, he let the cool winter air in. "This place is horribly stuffy. You can close it when you're cold, yes? Or do you want me to close it now?"

"The air's fine," Claire said quickly. She wanted him to just leave. "I think I would like to rest for awhile."

"If you wish. I have to put Pascal back in his cage." Pascal screeched unhappily - an owl whine. Bernard scooped up the dusty, spit-covered mouse from the ground. "Why must you drop your food all the time?" he muttered, as Pascal took the rodent from his hand. "You are such a messy eater, aren't you?"

Claire closed the door when they exited. Relieved that she was finally alone, she took the rolled up paper from behind her and pored over the words. The article was dated December 17 and read thus:

_A lonely, abandoned fisherman's hut located in the dunes near __Brighton__ was known to the local Muggle youth as the Love Shack. Throughout the past decades, many could recall the place as a teenage hangout. No wonder it was startling when a group of Muggle college students discovered a young girl suffering from a gun-inflicted chest wound early this morning. At first believed to be a fatal injury, the girl underwent a miraculous recovery under Muggle care. She is now under covert surveillance by the RMC as she recovers at Princess Royal._

_People in the Muggle world are mystified by this girl's appearance, but the Registry of Magical Creatures knows the exact identity of this young victim. Mary Grisham, a young Muggle girl, was involved in a werewolf attack at her hometown of Havenshire in October. Initially, the Ministry presumed her dead and sent out the Registry to investigate the crime. Ever since then, however, findings had shown that the girl was alive and well, living as a werewolf and on the run with 36-year old Remus Lupin, the werewolf who had bit her. Lupin, the only wolf to be educated at __Hogwarts__School__ of Witchcraft and Wizardry, is a highly trained expert in the field of magic. Officials at the Registry worried before that the werewolf duo would seek further carnage and destruction, which had been confirmed with the attacks on a Muggle couple - by coincidence the girl's parents - only two days ago._

_Now, with this latest development, concerns over further attacks in town have subsided, only to be replaced by questions about the girl's welfare. Some psychologists suggest that the 7-year-old should be returned to her Muggle family, who also had experience with werewolves in the past. Reports show that the father, Reverend Kevin Grisham, had been in an incident with a suicidal werewolf two years ago, a case that went past the Oblivators at the Ministry. These experts argue that since that incident never made widespread coverage, the child can be returned safely to the family without any publicity. Others counter that since the family has already had enough incidents with the magical world, they cannot be declared safe to keep their knowledge secret any longer. Compromisers suggest that selective Memory Charms would be placed on the entire family before relocating them outside of __England__. The exact decision is still up to the Registry of Magical Creatures. Meanwhile, the girl will be placed in a foster home for non-wizard, part-human creatures under the care of the state._

_What is even more confusing than her situation is the reason why the Muggle survived. Officials state that her survival was the result of Incidental Magic - magic that predates all other current forms, including wands. This is the type of magic Muggle refer to as "miracles" and permeates their myths and religions. Incidental Magic is still a mysterious field yet to be thoroughly explored by wizards, but the basics of it are based on intense emotions. A wizard's emotions can direct their magical nature into influencing a desired incident to happen. It was through cases of ancient Incidental Magic, after all, that wizards first distinguished themselves from Muggles during the dawn of human civilization. Wizards - through foci such as wands, crystal balls - later controlled these abilities to their advantage. Yet even young wizard children today are known to conduct sporadic magic accidentally, causing explosions or even minor transfiguration. _

_The most reasonable theory for the girl's survival is that Incidental Magic occurred during the shooting, preventing injury. The possible reason behind this assault could involve one of the greatest lycanthrope myths known. The legend states that if one's love shoots a silver object through the werewolf's heart, the beast would be cured. There is no historical basis or accurate documentation by the Ministry of this method ever being conducted successfully. However, Lupin - already marked by criminal profilers as an unstable extremist - may have thought that he could cure her through practicing this folktale. Whether the girl was truly "cured" from her condition or was only saved through Lupin's will for her to live (i.e. his Incidental Magic) will not be known for sure until the next full moon. _

_The current whereabouts of Remus Lupin are unknown. A wolf already connected with other crimes - besides this incident, Jarohnen Ianikit used Lupin's wand in the Islington murders - he is still considered highly dangerous. The Ministry will not rest until he is captured. Intense searches have begun throughout the __Brighton__ coastal area, and officials urge any wizards who have any information to please send an owl to the RMC immediately... _

There was a short section pertaining to Lupin's past, from his days as a student to quitting his teaching job at Hogwarts last year. No reason was listed on exactly why he left his job as Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, even though it wouldn't be hard to surmise one. Claire read this portion three times over. The names stuck in her mind and so did the information, but the rest was a blank. This void irritated her to no end. She had known these people once! That was why she had taken the Forget Potion, because it was dangerous knowledge to know about him and his pup.

More than before, she yearned to complete her memory. How could she have confidence in herself, if she couldn't have complete confidence in her mental state? She felt so stupid and ignorant, like a blind man trying to read print. The entire recollection of the past three months was scratched and torn apart. Some days she could recall completely yet others were as clear as mud.

The shallowest of her memories was one day in November. Thinking back, she could see herself in her office, arguing with Albert Lagrange about the Safehouse insurance coverage. The door opened and then- nothing. Blackness.

She focused with her mind, trying to see the person behind the door. However, no matter how hard she tried, not a sight or sound surfaced. All she was left was the itching feeling that whatever lay absent in her mind was the most vital thing she had ever known.

The spell doctor had said that those holes would eventually be filled by time, but Claire couldn't wait. The pieces she held close to her heart weren't enough. She knew their names now: that was an improvement. Yet the longing for her past was insatiable. To have forgotten them seemed like she forgotten a part of herself. Yes, he was a celebrity in a way, but he had to be more to her than the wizarding werewolf. Likewise, the child had to be worth more than the poor victim she saw in the paper.

She had so little memory of them, yet she had gone through so much for them. Why? This was the question that tortured her. Why had she done that? Risked her entire establishment for these two? Gone through humiliation and imprisonment for them? Suffered through that wretched interrogation-

Claire crushed the paper in her hands. She had gone through so much and for what? For these strangers! But they couldn't be strangers to her. That was the thought that frightened her out of her wits. She must have cared about them to do what she had done. And now whatever she cherished so much was gone, stolen away by her own hand. She had known them deeply and now, whatever she had had was lost...

Lost for now. Time will come and she would remember. Today she could wait. And she could wait tomorrow. And the day after that. For waiting was the only thing she had left.

She stared out towards the open balcony, then shivered. Moving her wheelchair towards it, she slowly closed one door, then the other. They cracked apart - must be faulty from age. Claire tried to reach up towards the small crossbar lock to fasten the doors together. Yet the lock escaped her hands. She would have to stand up in order to reach it. Her eyes stared helplessly at it, then-

_Thud! _

Claire stifled her cry of pain and drew her fist from the wood. The doors creaked shut, then drifted away again slightly. A lump welled up in her throat as she put her bruised fist to her lips. She bit her lip to subdue a sob. It wasn't the pain from her hand that she was feeling.

Minutes later, Bernard opened the door ajar, peeking timidly around the corner. He found his sister weeping softly to herself as the wind blew in from the open balcony. He stood there awkwardly. "_As-tu froid?_" he inquired.

Her head snapped up. _"Va-t'en!"_ Before he knew it, she had slammed the bedroom door in his face.

Sirius stared out into the darkness. The fire had died down to smouldering embers, giving off light equivalent to a single candle. With the lack of light also came a deficiency of heat. But Sirius hadn't woken up because of the freezing temperatures.

By the glowing logs, he saw the shuddering form of his friend. It was his shout that had woken him up moments before. The night before, he had heard someone cry out. He had been more tired then, and had gone back to sleep without a second thought. Tonight, however, he stayed awake. Sirius knew these nocturnal terrors had been going on much longer. Even back at school, Lupin had occasionally woken up from bad dreams. He had told Sirius of them once. Being in the swamp with a murderous wolf. Lycaos.

Yet what kind of nightmare was it now? Sirius's first instinct was to speak up, but he kept his mouth shut. He knew that Lupin wouldn't have wanted him to see him like this.

The shuffle of footsteps. Sirius watched Lupin rose to his feet, and walk with a tired step out towards to the front of the cave. Sirius got up and followed. The cave was quiet expect for the hippogriff's shallow breathing. However, Sirius could detect a ghost's whisper in the night. He was murmuring under his breath.

Sirius strained his ears. Unfortunately, the voice died away, and he lost the words.

Lupin stepped outside, his boots crunching on the dry, January snow. Sirius paused just at the entrance to the cave, pressing his back against the rock wall. He kept his eyes on Lupin. The werewolf kneeled down and scooped up a handful of frozen slush and shoved it quickly into his mouth. There was the sound of mild gagging, then a hacking cough, and the shift of more snow. Teeth chewed on jagged pieces of ice stuck in the mix. In the ancient starlight, Sirius had the impression that the man crouching in front of him was a Neanderthal at the dawn of time, alone in the icy wilderness.

He chose this time to present himself. "Hey, you awake?" A redundant question, but it was the best he could think of without appearing intrusive.

Lupin whipped around, wiping his mouth. "I was only thirsty."

Eating snow couldn't be very refreshing. "Did you check the kettle by the fire?" The drinking water was usually kept there.

"I wanted something cold." Lupin got up, brushing off his clothes. "I was just about to go back inside. Perhaps we could stir the fire back up. Did you want something warm to drink?"

"No, no, I'm good." The two stood outside for a few moments, as Sirius tried to continue the conversation. "Couldn't sleep?"

"I have been having a bit of trouble lately."

Sirius nodded. "I used to have nightmares often," he said. "Especially when I first got out of Azkaban. But they went away after awhile, when I realized I was never frightened of them, only the memories they brought. Memories can be more terrible than fear." He waited for Lupin to comment on that, possibly even open up. He had been trying that constantly, giving out a piece of himself for something in return.

His friend shoved his hands in his pockets. "Memories... even happy ones, can indeed be terrible." He paused and Sirius' hopes rose. Finally, was he getting a response?

"How can that be?"

"Happiness leaves a more painful haunting." Lupin walked past him, changing the subject. "Tomorrow we'll be scouting for more firewood, correct? At least I could try that rabbit warren again for food."

"Yeah..." Sirius trailed off. His method had failed again.

"Do you feel like going to sleep any time soon?" Lupin continued, his voice growing stronger. "Because I actually think I have a way at catching one of those buggers by ourselves. If you want, we can go over it now." He was lapsing back into that pseudo-confident mood, that resourceful logic that he built up whenever Sirius came close to reaching him: advice on how to build a faster fire, ways to mend torn clothing with rabbit gut and bone needles. All sorts of Cub Scout survival crap would tumble out of his mouth instead of anything personal. He was living with a man who was determined to lock himself into professor mode twenty-four hours a day.

"Maybe when it's actually daylight," Sirius replied numbly.

"True. We're both only half-awake. Judging by the stars, it's only a little after midnight." Lupin vanished into the depths of the cave.

Sirius stood outside, feeling the frigid air creep into his skin. Somehow, he didn't feel surprised at Lupin's swift emotional manoeuvring, only disappointed. Lupin could trust him with his life, but never anything else.

Lupin called out, "You're going to catch a chill." He sounded like a damn parent.

"Fine," Sirius snapped, storming back inside. He gave Lupin a frosty glance before retreating back to his sleeping spot. " 'Night, Remus."

If Lupin was ever hurt by his tone, he didn't show it. "Yes," he acknowledged. That didn't even make sense. Yes to a good night? Sirius didn't feel like pointing that out. He buried his head under his arms and grew silent. Now it was his turn to pretend to sleep.

The next morning he rose early. Lupin was up as well. Sirius kept giving him small, questioning glances, trying to pry him open. Trying to figure out what lurked beneath that calm exterior. He observed distant eyes and lapsed speech, and slow, slow movements, riddled with periods of contemplation. He saw a shaking hand and a brief fumble while lugging in the wood. It seemed as if they were individually suspended in midair, dangling alone and helpless. And then the suspension snapped and they were plummeting, diving, tumbling towards a dreaded darkness yet not touching - yes - just - not - quite - touching - bottom-

"Remus?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you ever thought...?"

"What?"

"Is anything... troubling you at all?"

Extending fingertips, reaching - out - farther - a little farther-

"Nothing in particular."

A brush. Missed. Empty air.

"Well... maybe you should relax a bit. That tossing and turning in the night... well, it bothers me, you know?"

A nod. "I'll keep that in mind."

The descent continued.

Chapter 3

"Jacques, I... I am pregnant with your child!" She turned away from the fireside, her expression screaming feminine distress.

The man stared at her, a look of anxiety dawning on his face. "Dear God, how can this be, Dominique? It was only one night of passionate love-making?"

"Oh, I do not know, my dear." She dashed up to him and clasped his hands within hers. "But what are we to tell my husband?" she asked worriedly, her lower lip trembling.

Jacques replied immediately, "Louis must never know!"

"Oh, but Jacques!" She threw her arms around him, giving a melodramatic sob.

He pressed her head against her chest. "Dominique!"

_Click_.

"Next, whisk in two large eggs, like so. Then pour two and a half cups of buttermilk into the mixture-"

_Click._

_Buzzz... Static._

_Click._

The weatherman pointed to the computer-generated map of Southern France. "Today, is another pleasant one for the Riviera area, with temperatures unusually mild as the southern winds stir up-"

Shutting off the television set, Claire tossed the remote control onto the sofa and sighed. A little under three weeks into her new life, and boredom had finally sunken in. She wasn't even sure if she could call it boredom. It was more of a realization that everything she had tried to build up for the past decade had crumbled right in front of her eyes, leading to a rapidly clearing schedule. Yes, that summed up her situation quite nicely.

Romania was the first to cave in. The day after her files had arrived, she had received an owl from the owner of the Safehouse in Arad. The Romanian Ministry of Magic had suspended his housing license. The government had gotten whiff of the troubles in England, and because it possessed one of the highest werewolf populations in the world, it had panicked and dropped the program. Stupid, in Claire's opinion, but she could not prevent that. She threw herself at the situation, trying to calm their officials down, but even three-hour long conference mirror calls couldn't do anything. They obviously were not going to listen to the wolf that had housed a British Muggle-napper and a Russian mass murderer.

Then came Poland, Lithuania, and Greece, closely followed by Estonia. By the end of the week, her entire Eastern Europe sector was shut down, with the owners and tenants cast into the streets. Claire had tried to redirect the outcasts to the remaining Safehouse locations, but borders tightened, and countries who once didn't care whether their wolves emigrated or not suddenly began opening their own werewolf facilities to aid the homeless. Claire herself couldn't travel to see these "relocation centres," but more than one international correspondent informed her that wolves are hiding out in the mountains or the countryside rather than trusting the wizards. Chaos ensued in Yugoslavia, where a group of wolves armed with Muggle sub-machine guns refused to be evicted from their Novi Sad Safehouse and had to be subdued through Stun Spells. That only added to the anti-lycanthrope tinderbox that existed in the area. She was infuriated, not only because of the pack's ill-thought actions, but specifically because she wanted to know how those wolves had got those sub-machine guns.

Western Europe hadn't done well either. Her little brother Caleb had given up in Vienna and cousin Eunice had had to turn over her authority to the French Ministry of Magic in order to continue her Safehouse. Germany was considering dropping their program too, and the Weiblich clan was sending her inquiries about the situation.

Claire had been working non-stop in her room upstairs for several days in a row, trying to settle all loose ends. At first, she had told the owners to fight against the government takeovers, but eventually, she coaxed them to let go. They simply didn't have the money to buy the lawyers needed to argue them out of this quagmire. Plus, when Caleb reported that someone had sent a death threat to his wife in the mail, Claire ordered him to let go and take his family out of the country immediately. She didn't want to see any blood spilt, especially her clan's.

And that had occurred in less than two weeks, rushing by like a manic whirlwind. The influx of owl mail had slowed down slightly since then, but she had still spent eight straight hours that day wading through piles of letters from various wolf families and owners, asking for aid. She had sent them promises of money, but nothing more than that. What else could she do?

Help was non-existent. Bernard had inquired politely about the unusual number of owls stopping by the house, but nothing more. This was her program, and he was taking great lengths not to get in her way. On the positive side, he had given her his Gringotts account number and carte blanche with the clan's treasury. Monetary aid would be provided to all who needed it at least.

Yet late that afternoon, sitting in her wheelchair in the living room, she had realized that after all the commotion died down - if it ever did - she would have almost nothing left. Her purpose in life would be demolished. It was a depressing thought to say the least. Depressing enough that she had tried to drown it out unsuccessfully through Muggle television.

A short, woman of indistinguishable age trotted into the room, carrying a feather duster. She was Fifi Dubois, Bernard's housekeeper. Humming softly to herself, she began dusting the various coffee tables, statuettes, and furniture throughout the room.

_Ring! _

Fifi gave a little jump, turned her head, and moved those tiny feet in the direction of the phone stand. Claire, who was right next to it, grabbed the receiver and covered the bottom with her hand. "I got it."

The housekeeper blinked, that gentle smile stamped on her face. _"Oui, Madame."_ She went back to her work, trailing the duster across the fireplace mantel.

_"Âllo?"_

_"Salut, Claire. C´est Bernard. Ça va?"_

"Ah..." she said, her voice turning flat. _"Euh, ça va bien."_

"I just called to see how you are doing," Bernard informed. "Did you eat anything yet?"

"Yes, I ate."

"Did Fifi cook up something for you? You know, all you have to do is ask."

_"Je __sais__."_ Claire watched the woman pick up each little knick-knack from the mantel, brush it over quickly, and put it back down again.

_"C'est bien,"_ her brother approved. "How is Pascal?"

"He's fine." Claire tried to contain her annoyance. Why did he have to always check up on her like this? Pampering her at home was bad enough; why did he deem it necessary to use daily calls as well? Who did he think she was, a pup?

"You know I'll be working late tonight. I'll be home around eight. Will you be all right?"

"I'm sure I'll manage."

"If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask for help."

_"Oui."_ She couldn't believe that she was being reduced to this. _"D´accord?"_

Bernard sounded satisfied with this proposition. "Be careful."

Of what? Of being bombarded with owl mail? Of getting a sore throat from futilely advocating peaceful solutions to foreign diplomats who all had big sticks up their arses? Or of losing all sense of reason if Bernard ever bothered to call home again?

"I will." She hung up.

Finally. _Mon Dieu_! As well-meaning as he was, her brother was beginning to irritate her. At home, wasn't he already in her face enough? Sure, he wouldn't give advice on how to control the rioting homeless in Poland, but he was more than willing to buzz about behind her back in case she needed anything. She couldn't even go down the hall near his room without him popping his head out to see if she wanted his aid. "Can I help you with this, Claire?" "Are you sure you can handle that? Here, I'll take these files for you." "I should replace these bookshelves for you, Claire, since you can't reach them." On and on and on...

Fifi picked up the remote control from the sofa, dusted it, and placed it back neatly on top of the entertainment centre. She went about this ritual every other day, as if dust could accumulate to dangerous levels fairly quickly. Maybe Bernard had mentioned the condition of the guestroom when she had returned. As far as Claire knew, Fifi could only take orders. _"Oui, Madame," "Non, Madame," "D´accord, Madame," "À votre service, Madame,"_ and "Hmmm?" were the only phrases Fifi had ever spoken to her. Having a conversation with Fifi Dubois was like playing Twenty Questions.

A screech echoed from upstairs. Claire groaned inwardly. Pascal, the second bother (which is, perhaps, only "brother" without the "r"). That owl was a hooting bottomless pit. Bernard told her to feed him only once in the afternoon while he was at work, (Fifi didn't like to handle mice), but Pascal would start squawking around five and wouldn't stop without at least two more mice. Bernard never believed her when she told him this, but that was only because Pascal never pulled that trick when his owner was home. He was quite crafty for a bird whose brain was the size of a walnut.

Fifi raised her head at the cry. "Oh?" A look of apprehension crossed her face, her soft smile becoming strained.

"I'll feed him," Claire said.

_"Oui, Madame."_ She relaxed and went on with her dusting.

Another screech.

"Coming!" she muttered, ascending the steps to the second floor. She held onto the railing with both hands as the wheels climbed their way up; a steep staircase made it difficult to keep her balance. Arriving at the top, she entered Bernard's room where Pascal was kept to find a man peering into his cage.

"Toby?"

The teenager turned around and grinned at her. "Hi, Claire," he greeted. Pascal was flapping wildly in his cage, trying to get away from the Freedom Hound who stood next to him. Toby pointed a finger at the owl. "That's one fat bird you got there."

" E blackmails me," she replied in English, giving a mock grimace. "If I don't feed 'im five times a day, e destroys my earing." She shut the door behind her and locked it. "Speak softly. I ave a ousekeeper downstairs."

"Sure." He lowered his voice. "Can I feed him?" Toby poked his fingers through the bars. Pascal quailed in terror, siding away from the intruder.

"Not very friendly, is he?"

"I ave no idea why e is acting like zis," Claire took a dead mouse from the jar and raised her hand up to the cage. Pascal eyed her offering warily before darting out with his talon, grabbing it, then retreating back to the farthest end of his cage. " Ow did you get ´ere?"

"We've been staking out the place for the past couple days. I came in through your balcony." Toby analyzed her appearance, his arms folded. She lowered her eyes away from his stare. "Government bastards," he muttered.

She knew he was referring to her condition. "Forget it," she said softly. "I did zis myself."

Toby appeared not to believe her, but he let it slide. "So," he drawled, straddling a chair by the bed stand, "what's the situation with you?"

"Awful," Claire said. "I always knew zat ze governments might discard ze program because of what as appened, but I never guessed zat all of zis commotion would burst out."

"Tell me about it." Toby pointed out the window. "Dominic and I were out there and we get pelted with some owl shit as they make their rounds. We carry umbrellas with us now." He gave a crooked grin. "It's as if those wizards want their messengers to crap on us."

"Why are you watching zis place?" Claire questioned, arching an eyebrow. "You suddenly don't trust me?"

"Frankly, Ulysses just doesn't like your brother." Toby shrugged. "We would have contacted you sooner, but we weren't sure what would happen if he showed up."

"Well, Bernard won't get back fotrom ze Centre until seven. E usually works late."

"What does he do anyway?" Toby's eyes travelled around the room, which was chic-modern in style: smooth furniture coated with black Italian lacquer. His eye caught a picture that was tucked into a corner of the black-trimmed dresser mirror. It was a copy of the one Claire had kept at the London Safehouse, with the two of them together. "Is he a scientist of some sort?"

"Genealogist," she verified. " ´E organizes pedigrees, records family istories. Dabbles in genome research. Gives lectures now and zen. Travels often. Writes books." She pointed to the far wall, where an extensive tapestry-like hanging was displayed. The cloth was three metres by four and covered with variously coloured squares, circles, and lines all organized like branches of a tree. "Zat's ours. Going over seven 'undred years back."

He gave a low whistle and walked up to the pedigree, examining the tiny gold-coloured lettering printed underneath each relation. "Sounds boring."

"To each is own." Claire looked at him seriously. "Now why are you really ere?"

Toby turned around and cleared his throat, taking out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. "He's still aware," he said, handing it to her.

She took the paper and read the first few lines. _As I sit in this wretched prison, I ponder a question that I have analysed for many years: where is the rightful place of the non-wizard in magical society?_

Her eyes widened. These were Jarohnen's words. She read the title aloud. "The Werewolf Manifesto..."

"It's very innovative," Toby said proudly. "The Balkan wolves have especially taken a shine to it."

" Ow did you get zis?" she demanded.

"Ulysses found a way to contact him." He folded his arms across the chair's back. "Jarohnen fooled the Committee, you know. Got life at the Kennel instead of the death penalty."

"I'm not so sure if it can be called fooling..." Claire remembered what she had heard during her stay at the RMC. She had shared a dungeon with him, and even though all she could hear was his voice, she knew something had changed. He had just sounded so... fevered and quick. Like he was himself yet wasn't. Claire couldn't think of the words to express this transformation - maybe it was all in her mind - but it frightened her to wonder what he had become...

"Jarohnen's not right, Toby," she said lowly.

"Obviously he's not right. He's stuck on that Dementor-infested island."

"No. I mean..." Claire grasped for the right words. "I spoke wiz im at ze Registry. E was... different..."

"What do you mean?" Toby eyed her strangely.

She tucked the paper next to her and gestured with her hands. "It's as if... as if..." she fumbled, unable to explain.

"You mean like the wizards did something to him?"

"No, like Jarohnen did something to imself. Like zair was something hidden inside im for so long and now it finally manifested itself. Something abnormal, like a cancer or- or a tumour."

"I don't get it." His expression turned darker. "How could you say that about your friend and comrade?"

"I'm not!" Claire gave a frustrated sigh. "I am only saying what I eard."

"Well, maybe you heard wrong." Toby got up from his seat. "We need your help, Claire."

She didn't like where this was going. "Wiz what?"

"We want to break him out."

The response was almost automatic. "But e killed five people!"

"It wasn't his fault," he rebuked. "The wizards hurt him first."

"Zat does not give a wolf ze right to sink to zair level. I always zought Jarohnen knew zat."

Toby was taken back. "I can't believe I'm hearing this from you."

"Well, why me? E ad many friends, probably some zat I don't even know."

"Because you knew Remus Lupin."

Her heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean I knew Remus Lupin?"

"We all presumed... He and that pup of his stayed with you for a-while, and maybe..."

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe he taught you something."

"Lupin teach me magic?" Claire didn't know whether to laugh or not. After all, she only knew fragments of her time with him...

"Do you think he did?"

Was that the reason why he had come? Because of magic? Claire felt an irritated spark within her. She had fretted for so long about their welfare and they had only returned to ask for a favour? Had they even worried for her?

"Why should it matter to you if e did?" she snapped bitterly.

Well, if she could remember anything, and if Remus had taught her anything, why should she tell? Claire had sacrificed so much for this wolf, and she wasn't going to betray him by telling them any knowledge he might have given her.

She let off some steam that had been building up all day. "Do you think I was is little apprentice? Zat e gave me a wand and a cauldron and taught me potions? Zat we spent days working on transfiguration and charms?" Claire gave a dismissive huff. "I do not know anything," she ended truthfully.

Toby pressed his lips together. "You seem to be forgetting exactly who your friends are," he replied harshly. He started to pace the room. "We´ve been with you through everything. Hell, when I was a pup all I would ever hear is all the legendary stuff you, Ulysses, and Jarohnen did together."

"Zat was a long time ago."

He threw his hands up. "Remember the protest rallies in Paris?"

"Which were broken up wizin ze first our."

"Or smuggling refugees out of England?"

"My fazzer almost ad a fit when e found out I was spending money on zose motorboats. Sold zem before e ever found out what zey were for."

"What about that time you three went to Transylvania to help those wolves get their own reservation set up?"

She gave that one its due credit. "Ze wolves did get zair reservation." Toby nodded enthusiastically. "But zen ze government pulled an America on us," she added with a tight-lipped smile.

A harsh laugh came out. The adventures she had had back then! When she was young and her family was lax and stupid, concerned with their own affairs in the Muggle world. She was the Alpha male's daughter in a patrimonial clan - no one had cared what the little female did. Bernard, even little Caleb, had received the bulk of the attention. So long as her name didn't hit the papers, she could run with whomever she liked. But not forever. Yet she couldn't explain public image to a Freedom Hound, could she?

"Times change." She cast her eyes down and sighed. "People change."

"So suddenly you're not with us anymore? Comrades stick up for one another."

"Did Ulysses send you all ze way to France just to lecture me?" was all she could say. "I'm surprised e didn't come to tell me zis imself."

She heard Toby sigh. He placed a hand on the back of her chair. She raised her eyes to meet his. "Maybe you need some time," he said softly. "You're a great person, Claire. You know we wouldn't turn to anyone else for this."

"I'll think about it," she replied quickly.

"All of us have been mistreated by the wizards," he added. "No one deserves to stay in their self-made hell." Quite abruptly, he put a hand to his ear. "What is it, Dom?" He paused. "He's coming? Okay, I'm leaving." Toby kneeled down, and gripped her shoulders slightly. "I have to go. Take care, okay?"

Claire nodded. Then Toby was up and gone from the room. She wheeled herself out to her balcony in time to glimpse his form jump down from the top of the brick wall into the street.

Moments later, the wrought-iron gate opened and Bernard's car pulled into the drive. He stepped out and waved up to her. _"Belle soirée, n´est-ce pas?"_ he called, acknowledging the pleasant weather. He took his briefcase out of the passenger seat. _"Un garçon faisait un tour pars ici. Je ne l´ai jamais avant vu. Le connais-tu?"_

_"Non,"_ she replied. _"Probablement seulement un touriste."_ Let Bernard think Toby was just a tourist. She gave a tight-lipped smile. Her brother had no idea what she was getting into. Neither did she.

Chapter 4

In the open countryside at a large farmhouse near Hogsmeade, a black dog sniffed about an overturned trashcan. Digging his muzzle among the refuse, he ignored the dinner scraps and soup bones that most strays would go for. Instead, he spotted a ripped newspaper and took that into his mouth.

"Hey, doggie! Here doooooogggiiieeee-!"

He dropped the paper and looked up, cocking his head to one side. A small hand stuck out from between the boards of a picket fence. The pink stubby fingers wiggled at him, then disappeared.

"Doggie, come here!"

Trying not to seem too curious, the black dog put his nose at the base of the picket nearest to the trashcan. He sniffed the wood as if he found something interesting about it - the scent of another dog, perhaps, or a bit of garbage he had missed. Slowly, inch-by-inch, the dog dragged his nose to where that little hand was. He lifted up his shaggy head, trailing his nose along the wood.

A giggle was heard behind the fence. A second voice, that of a small girl, commented, "That dog snuffles a lot." From between the whitewashed boards, a little violet eye glistened, fringed with thick, dark lashes. "Look at him!" she squealed delightfully.

The dog backed up a few steps upon the sight of the eye. He gave a gruff rumble from the back of his throat, then turned around, disinterested.

"I know what you want." It was the first voice again, the one that had called him over. The hand reappeared just a few pickets away, this time with an object in its grasp. "Betcha want this," the boy said. "Wanna cookie, doggie?"

Cookie? Now this seemed like a suitable offering. The dog loped up to the child's hand and gently took the treat into its jaws.

More giggles were heard, along with exclamations. "Look, Andrea, he took it! He took it!"

He munched on it loudly. Not bad. The black dog swallowed and licked at the fallen crumbs. God bless baked goods.

"Now gimme a cookie," the girl demanded. "I wanna feed the doggie!"

"No, they're my cookies!"

"No fair!"

"Yes fair!" The crinkle of a bag being ripped out of someone's hold.

An angry retort. "Give it back!"

"Nnyh!" The girl must be sticking her tongue out. Then-

"Hey... let... go!" she cried.

"Yeah... right!"

Sounds of struggle and kicking came from the other side. The black dog perked his ears up. Maybe taking the cookie hadn't been the best option after all.

Suddenly, a stern, matronly voice talking in an obscenely thick Scottish accent boomed, silencing the scuffle. "Break et oop! Break et oop! Wha' are ye liddin 'uns doin´ oot here?"

"He was sneaking cookies out to the doggie behind the fence!" the girl accused sharply.

"Wha' dog?"

The black dog conveniently took this time to grab the ragged issue of the _Daily Prophet_ and hightail it out of there. The woman behind it narrowed her eyes at the retreating figure. "Ye know bitter than tae foo' arund wi' straas!" she said, wagging a finger at the two children. "Nou go bac inside!"

The form of a large black dog climbed up the steep rocky mountain slope. From the cave opening, Lupin squinted down at him. Sirius had managed to get only one issue this time. He had started stealing old issues from Hogsmeade whenever he could the past few days in order to wean them for information. Only the most relevant articles relating to the Ministry or the Triwizard Tournament were saved; the rest fuelled the fire.

When the dog made his way back to the cave, Lupin asked, "Find anything interesting?"

In a blink of an eye, the animal transformed back into his familiar friend. He let the newspaper drop and spat the inky taste out of his mouth. "I got a cookie," Sirius replied. "Oatmeal raisin."

Lupin couldn't help but give a small smile, and then turned back to his lookout duty. He was supposed to keep watch for any trespassing wizards, but the probability of anyone showing up wasn't very high. There was nothing much to do here. The Second Task wasn't until February 24; Sirius had over a month to investigate Harry's situation. Lupin contributed on the sidelines, mostly as the spectator and occasional soundboard.

The full moon had come only a couple weeks before. Thankfully, he had spent it in a safe manner, romping down the rocky trails and along the snowy crags. He didn't have to worry about attacking any Muggles, or escaping the Ministry... After that night, he wondered how the other werewolves he knew spent their full moon. His thoughts turned particularly to one former wolf.

Mary, his pup... Was she back with her family? In his little world, she was happy with her parents far away from England. But, of course, that was only his greatest hope. Yet did Kevin, her father, know about him? In retrospect, he had the suspicion all along that Kevin was more than he appeared to be. And when that article in the Brighton Argus had come out, Lupin had presumed that he knew everything about him. Yet was he putting too much to chance? Had he put too much to chance by putting the silver bullet to her?

No. Mary had to be alive. She had to be, because that was how the cure was supposed to work. If a werewolf was shot through the heart with a silver object by one's true love... He did love her. She was only a child, a young, innocent child. She was ignorant of her world, yet she seemed to know things he did not. And he was drawn to that. The wolf to the lamb.

He couldn't even begin to sort out the thoughts explaining this endearment. The closest explanation was a memory. One night at the Safehouse Lupin had been jolted awake when she had crawled under his covers and tucked her little head against his side. The feel of someone so close to him was immediately startling; he almost pushed her off onto the floor. But before he could take action she had whispered in a trembling voice, "Remmy, can I sleep in your bed tonight?"

And in the dark, when all he could sense was the child's fragile vulnerability, he had replied, "Yes, you may."

He had never asked why. Perhaps she had had a nightmare. Or perhaps she had missed her parents and needed comforting. Whatever it was, to hold her while she was nestled against him... to hear her breathe in and out... to feel her head pressed against his chest and wonder if she could hear his heartbeat... to know that it was him that she needed and no one else... that was one of the most cherished moments in his life. Lupin had stayed awake long after she had fallen back asleep, on guard, protecting her from her imaginary demons. And he had stayed up many, many nights long after that experience, trying to relive that moment.

No words could express beloved parenthood. Only memories.

So there was no denying that... that he did care for her. That belief should even have overcome the fact that he was her maker. If a wolf should ever harm his pup, that same injury would be inflicted upon him. He had given her a fatal wound and so he should have died. However, he had not died because that wound had not been fatal to her. And if she had not die, then she must have been cured.

That had been his reasoning all along. But why did he doubt himself?

He wondered if he had done the right thing. Mary could have stayed with him. Most likely the attack was only a fluke, not fate. After the full moon, the three of them could have escaped into the suburbs, then made their way up north together. She could still be here, with him...

Lupin killed that vein of thought before it could sink any deeper. But thought can be a merciless torturer, reappearing in many forms. Memory came with it and together they presented another friend, the one with dove grey eyes.

Claire. God, he wasn't sure what he felt about her. He respected the Frenchwoman, and certainly admired her intelligence and strong will. And... well, Lupin could admit now that he was perhaps a little attracted to her... She wasn't beautiful, but... interesting... in little ways. When her head was lowered at her desk, with her reading glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose while she talked to him about the origins of common law... The way she would push them back up, brush the hair out her eyes and continue - that was interesting. The way she would move about the kitchen and complain under her breath about how she hated to cook, but would do it herself rather than hire outside help - that was interesting. And the way her steady authoritarian self could suddenly change into an artist who could paint murals that seemed to jump off the walls... or into a blushing young lady who teased him about his poor dancing skills...

Perhaps she was more than interesting. Perhaps she had even been enchanting.

He couldn't decide exactly. His emotions became all muddled and confused when it came to her. A woman is so much more complex than a girl.

Yet why did he waste so much time thinking of them? They were gone; he pushed them away. It was his choice to leave one, then the other. He didn't deserve to have them in his life. Not when the only reason they had stepped into it was because he had gotten drunk one full moon.

What meaning could be taken from any of this? At first, he had thought he being given another chance at living a feeling, caring life, yet he couldn't do so while in the shadow of the law. So he had never had another chance, only a fleeting glimpse of one. That's all he ever had - glimpses. Little points of light, like stars in the night sky. Flashes of normalcy in one world, then another. And Lupin could only travel from one halo of light to the next, never settling anywhere because he couldn't. First, it had been because of his werewolf nature, but after this escapade he couldn't even reside in the werewolf community. For the werewolf universe collided with the wizard one, and he was caught between them...

Caught between stars. Lost in the night.

The thought unsettled him. Lupin glanced over his shoulder at his friend, who was leafing through the _Daily Prophet_. Sirius could live with a price over his head because he knew he was innocent. However, Lupin did not have that luxury.

For a moment, he envied him. Sirius had a purpose. He had Harry. Lupin felt as if he had finished his duty by covering for Sirius at the First Task. Imposing any more made him feel like a third leg. Undoubtedly, Sirius took his job as godfather very personally. He, of course, was made for the job. Who would place a child under a werewolf's care? James certainly had not. Anyhow, Sirius had the advantage with his Animagus abilities. Lupin could only stay up here with Buckbeak, alone with his thoughts.

He quickly turned back to the desolate landscape, his hopes tumbling. He felt as if he had nothing. Only to be a fugitive, to be branded as a criminal... To live in a society that would never trust him or forgive him for his actions, no matter how hard he tried to redeem himself... That was his life: then and now and forever.

That was the price of tasting human blood.

Yet one solution presented itself. It had slithered into his mind one day through the tunnels of madness, crawling in from unknown depths. Then plomp! the thought took root into a crevice of his mind, staying there indefinitely. This thought disturbed him initially, but as he grew comfortable with whatever madness dropped into his lap- it had given him worse - the more this solution appealed to him. _Listen to me... _this tiny thought hissed out from the nuances of his brain. _Listen._

_You can do nothing by staying here in this cave. Go out. Find out what happened to the others. You can't stay in hiding forever. Sirius can care for himself, and Harry is safe at Hogwarts. You have no use here. You have to make sure you've amended your ways, Remus._

The thought smiled. _You promised you would amend your ways. Remember?_

On and on this thought had gone, for days and weeks, hour after hour. It was this thought and its elusive companion Memory that controlled his mind. Thought took over during the day and Memory came during the night, with little switch-offs in between. It was them that made him so introverted, that made him stay up nights and loaf away the days. Memory and the thought, working together, coaxing him, persuading him, reasoning with him...

Are you listening, Remus?

He blinked a couple times, wrestling his mind out of their grasp. Thought was asking if he would take his hand. Lupin wasn't sure, still wasn't sure... But the thought seemed so logical, so sure and so _right_.

He rose from his seat, stretched indulgently, then stepped outside for a breath of air. Buckbeak, who was tethered to a rock close by, called after him.

Spotting him move, Sirius glanced up from his paper and commented, "So you aren't on embalming fluid."

Lupin decided to start off subtly. "How goes the news?"

"Curiously." Sirius shuffled through the papers. "Remember Bertha Jorkins?"

Lupin thought for a moment and a schoolboy memory resurfaced. The image of a short, brown-haired girl who was a bit on the chubby side came to mind. "She was a few years ahead of us, correct?" Another recollection. His forehead furrowed. "Wasn't she the one who started the rumour that you and I were-?"

Sirius's left eyebrow arched. "The very same," he agreed. He cleared his throat hastily, then continued, "Apparently, she went on vacation in Albania, where Voldemort was last seen. The Ministry's going nuts in finding her, but it's as if she disappeared off the planet. Rumours are circulating that the Minister himself might become involved soon."

"So, you think she succumbed to Voldemort?"

"Long ago." Sirius held up an article declaring the Ministry's continuing search for the missing woman. "I told Harry to look out for anything about her last time I saw him. Not many issues I find are still readable."

"Anything else?"

"I've been rooting about for some more information about Karkaroff." He gave a little scowl. "I truly think that he might have had some connection with putting Harry's name in the Goblet."

This was a conviction that Sirius had been sticking to for quite awhile. They had talked of the possibility of the Durmstrang headmaster being the saboteur at Hogwarts. Certainly the man had the credentials: a former Death Eater who tattled on other Death Eaters in order to escape the horrors of Azkaban. Sirius claimed that he had to be a very manipulative person in order to cheat out his comrades, and wouldn't have a second thought about running back to Voldemort's side once the Dark Lord grew strong enough. Lupin, personally, thought that in Sirius's mind, Karkaroff's actions were parallel to Peter Pettigrew's: both were men who worked only for their self-interest and nothing else. Little wonder then, that Sirius would have some distaste toward him. Frankly, Lupin couldn't agree more.

However, Lupin had once mentioned to Sirius about spying on Mad-Eyed Moody in his office during the Triwizard Tournament. The topic of the Polyjuice Potion had come up. Lupin had sworn that he had seen the former Auror in the midst of making the shape-shifting brew and that someone else could be posing as him. Sirius had appeared very interested when Lupin had initially revealed this discovery, but that intriguing find soon came to a dead end. Sirius had first questioned him resolutely about whether he was absolutely sure of what he had seen. Lupin had tried not to exaggerate, but really, as sharp as he could make his memory, he also knew that he wasn't in his own body when he witnessed it. Lupin had taken the Polyjuice Potion himself in order to attend the wizard event safely, posing in werewolf Jarohnen Ianikit's form. He couldn't deny that Jarohnen's body was stronger and more agile than it looked, but the wolf had been through much. His eyesight could be questionable. Could Lupin have mistaken some of the ingredients for the ones used in the Polyjuice Potion? After all, he had led himself a bit, especially when he had first marked Mad-Eyed Moody with the Polyjuice scent. How did he know that he hadn't been confused with his own potion? After all, overcooked cabbage was what most wizard-influenced spells should smell like; potions made with a werewolf's hairs were a different matter.

Lupin's confidence in his theory was knocked down another few notches when Sirius had noted that those same ingredients could be used in a more-common, less-complicated potion used to relieve arthritis. Sirius remembered that potion's notorious stench polluting his childhood home, since his mother had used it to subdue her acute knee pains. Possibly Mad-Eyed Moody could have been refilling his flask with that concoction instead of Polyjuice. This presumption actually fit in with the wizard's paranoid tendencies; Moody would rather make the potion himself than trust anyone else to do it for him.

So with Sirius's suspicions about Karkaroff rising, Lupin's information was placed on the back burner, if not thrown out altogether. Yet, Lupin felt reassured that Sirius was going on the right track and making much progress without him.

"No other leads?"

"None yet."

Lupin said pointedly, "I suppose you wouldn't need my help at all?"

Sirius glanced up. "What do you mean by that?"

"Harry seems to care for himself very well. This hideout will never be detected by anyone from the outside. Your Animagus abilities will prevent anyone from detecting you and if this place is discovered, Buckbeak can take you anywhere safely. Perhaps it is time that I left."

"Left?" Sirius repeated blankly.

"I've been thinking about her."

Now this got his attention. Lupin had never mentioned the child directly until now.

"And?"

"She... was a mistake." The words hurt coming out. He waited for Sirius's reaction.

"You mean, what you... what you did, you consider it a mistake?"

"The fact she was ever my pup was wrong."

Sirius couldn't find a proper response for that. Lupin couldn't blame him. Even Buckbeak stopped fidgeting with his rope. The cave was silent until Lupin broke it with a declaration. "I want to find her."

"What do you mean?"

"I need to see if I corrected what I did."

"Well..." Sirius put the flimsy newsprint down on the damp floor and furrowed his brow. "Why can't you stay here?"

"Because I'm of no use, Sirius. What do I do, really? I can't investigate with you or visit Hogwarts to check up on Harry. We have enough firewood here to last you until the spring and the mountain game isn't enough to sustain two men and a hippogriff for a long time. And it's- it's becoming very difficult for me to stay any longer." He paused. "It's imperative that I go."

Sirius' reaction was simple. "I won't let you."

"What?"

"No, Remus," he repeated slowly, as if talking to a child, "I won't let you leave here."

"And why is that?" Lupin asked, using amusement to cloud over any agitation.

"Obviously, we have a man here who's _really _been living in a cave for the last few weeks," Sirius replied bitingly. "There's only about a few dozen Hit Wizards sent after you."

"Complete exaggeration. We haven't found any articles dealing with the... circumstances of last year," he said, toning down the last part. "You can't expect me to lie low while my pup could very possibly be in danger."

Sirius made a sarcastic snort. "Oh really? Well, try and start thinking about yourself for once. You are staying here."

"I was never asking permission in the first place. I was only stating my intentions."

"Then I'm glad that you've done so, Rem. Now I can keep a better eye on you."

"Keep a better-" Lupin was completely taken back. "Am I your prisoner?"

"No," Sirius snapped. "You're my friend. And friends don't let friends do incredibly insane things."

"Don't you trust me to take care of myself?"

"I don't."

His bluntness put a wedge into the argument. Lupin stared at him. "And why is that?"

"If you haven't figured it out yet, the last time I trusted you I found a corpse."

Reaction. Pure reaction. He sprang forward and the next thing any of them knew, Sirius was bowled down under him, with Lupin's hands grabbing the front of his robe. "Don´t. Say. That," he growled softly. "Never. Say. That."

Sirius´ eyes were inexpressible. With a hefty shove one would not expect from a man in his condition, he threw Lupin off. The werewolf hit the cave dirt. "What the hell, Remus?" he shouted. "Your pup's dead! She's dead and we both know it and I'm not letting you get killed for her!"

Inner instinct. The human guise that masked the beast within was thrown off. And rage. Fiery rage. An emotion he so rarely experienced because he could never control it. He spoke ever so quietly, almost inaudibly. "So that's what you think?"

"Yes." Sirius stood up, challenge in his eyes. Waiting.

"You think I killed her?"

Damning answer. "Yes." A pause. "No."

Was the latter said in guilt, disbelief, or loyalty?

They were posed at opposite ends of the cave. Sirius, standing, with his back facing the door, fists partly-clenched. Lupin, kneeling, almost crouching on the ground, head raised, eyes narrowed, breath slow. Buckbeak, reined in the middle, coolly observing through heavy-lidded orange eyes. His animal nature understood what these two men did not realize. This was a confrontation. Man versus beast. Dog versus wolf.

"Give me time." Domestic reasoning. "I can scrounge around for earlier issues. We can find out about her eventually. I could even contact Harry if you want. Maybe he's heard something."

No. Harry couldn't be involved. This was Lupin's business and his business only. James´ son was already preoccupied with more important matters; he couldn't burden the boy any more.

"Harry has no right to know of this. He has the Triwizard Tournament to focus on. Both of you can focus on that." A swift hand brushed the hair out of his eyes. "This is my concern that I wish to deal with my own way. Alone."

Fear. He could see the fear in his friend's eyes. Not of him, but for him. And that made the simmering anger bubble. Did Sirius think he could not handle his own issues? His voice could cut through steel. "Can't you understand?"

"Well, let me see," Sirius replied rather loudly. Lupin stiffened and sat back. Alertness. Weariness. Uncertainly.

His friend contemplated for a short while before starting. "First, I... I understand that you went to the First Task to watch over Harry," he began roughly. "I know that you risked your pup's safety in order to do so, and that you could have lived happily ever after somewhere if it wasn't for me."

He was taking this the wrong way, wasn't he? Lupin got to his feet. "Sirius-"

But Sirius raised a hand to silence him and continued. "Yet... I understand that you wake up nights and can't get back to sleep. And that you sit in this cave for hours, unable to do anything. And... that you think about places and people that you have never told me about." His pace had slowed down considerably now.

What did he mean by that?

"I never lied to you, Sirius."

"I didn't say that, Remus. How can you lie to a person, when you don't really speak to them?" He swallowed hard; it was getting more and more difficult for him to talk.

Lupin's own mouth was going dry. Indeed, how many weeks had they spent with each other in their own separate worlds? How much time had they wasted together because Lupin had refused to take full advantage of their past friendship? How selfish had he been? This wasn't supposed to happen, he realized. Not between friends.

Now it was too late. Lupin had decided that he wanted to do this. He had to. Surely, Sirius could grasp the importance of it...

"I understand that you're restless, that you can't stay here for long. That you want to deal with your life your way." Sirius went on. He seemed to hit a personal epiphany at that sentence and hesitated. His voice came out soft and raspy when he spoke again. "I also understand that you have your own score to settle with yourself, and I can't do a damn thing about it."

He did comprehend his situation, better than Lupin had realized. Oh, how could he have doubted someone to whom he was so close? He felt his heart sink. He was still friends with Sirius, right? Sure, he hadn't told him about his times at the Safehouse, or the Freedom Hounds, or Claire. And he hadn't exactly opened up to him about Mary... Yet there was still time. Lupin could tell Sirius everything that he had kept inside, all of his thoughts, his concerns, his plans...

But if he did, would he still have the will to leave?

The wolf wanted this. Needed this. And he, Remus Lupin, let the beast hold sway. Because his human side yearned the same.

By that time, Sirius had walked to the cave wall and slumped himself against it, as if beaten by his own logic. He stared up at the stalactites hanging from the ceiling. Lupin wondered if he was holding back tears. He had never seen Sirius cry before. It seemed out of character. This entire situation seemed out of character. "I only wish it could have been different."

Lupin found himself making his way over to Sirius' side. His anger had subsided as quickly as it had come. Yet he didn't feel remorse at what he must do. He knew Sirius could care for himself and for Harry. If only the feeling had been mutual. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"Sorry for what?" Sirius faced him. He wasn't crying. A pale sunbeam entered the cave, cutting across his thin frame. In the light, Lupin noticed how gaunt and tired his face was, like years had slipped by between the minutes. Those haunted eyes of a friend - and of a stranger - stared into his. "Sorry that we can't just be Moony and Padfoot anymore?"

Lupin turned away and walked a few steps towards the cave opening, his legs feeling like solid lead. He picked up his battered briefcase on his way out. Buckbeak raised his head and crooned sadly, as if bidding farewell.

He heard Sirius whisper listlessly behind him. "Well, I'm sorry too."

End of Part 1.


	2. Crime vs. Conscience

**Summary:** In Part Two, Sirius discovers that he isn't the only stray wandering Hogsmeade, and Lupin gets a new job in the most unexpected of places...  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author notes:** Revised: May 2005

WOLF BY EARS  
Part Two: Crime v. Conscience  
By D.M.P.

Conscience is born when man has shed his fur, his tail, his pointed ears.

Sir Richard Burton, _The Kasîdah, Pt. v, st. 19_

Chapter 5

"Monsieur l'Alpha," Fifi Dubois murmured. The gold-rimmed china plate was placed down on the embroidered tablecloth in front of Bernard, with three steaming crêpes folded over and topped with cream and berries.  
Bernard waved her off with a flick of the wrist and a distracted nod. "If we find it, this could change the fine line between magic and science as we know it," he said to Claire. With a swift flourish, he unfolded the napkin and tucked it into his collar.  
"Madame." Her own breakfast was presented to her.  
"_Merci._" Claire placed her napkin in her lap. Not having to cook for herself was one of the considerable perks of living here. But of course her brother had never had to turn on a stove in his life, considering that he would burn the townhouse down if he tried.  
"So, explain why you have to go to Luxembourg again?" she asked.  
"For an informational conference about the genome," Bernard said, his mouth half full.

"Sounds interesting…"

"You'd never appreciate it, I'm sure." He leaned an elbow against the table and waved about his fork. "It's only two weeks in March. Only a privileged few are invited to attend. I'm surprised that I was even considered at all. Opportunities like this don't crop up often."  
"The only reason you were invited is because the group knew that you would shell out enough money to sponsor their research."  
"And is that so wrong?" Bernard took a hefty gulp from his glass. "Five years they say, Claire, until they narrow down its location. Track it down, tear it open, and-" He thumped the glass down on the fine tablecloth. _"Voilà! L'énigme de la vie!"_  
"The origins of lycanthropy cannot be that simple," she said. "But still, it is nice to think about."  
"'I am the riddle of life,'" he quoted. "'Know me and know thyself.'"  
"Monsieur l'Alpha! Monsieur l'Alpha!" Fifi, who had previously disappeared behind the swinging kitchen doors, stuck her head out. "Monsieur l'Alpha has a conference mirror call."  
"Who is it?"  
"Monsieur Stuart. He says it is about Madame's deposition."  
"Deposition?" Claire looked at Bernard, who suddenly seemed very interested in his plate. "Why is he calling?"  
"Tell him to call back later," he ordered.  
"_Oui,_ Monsieur l'Alpha." Her starch-capped head vanished.  
"Why is he calling?" Claire repeated, her voice going higher than usual.  
Bernard became even more intent on cutting his food.  
"This has nothing to do with the British RMC, does it?"  
"Just a little," he muttered.  
Her fork hit the table. "Only a little?"  
Fifi popped out again. "He says it is urgent."  
Bernard made a dismissive noise, as if it wasn't a top priority to him. He got up from his seat, not looking at his sister. _"Excusez-moi."_  
Claire glared daggers at his retreating back. What deposition? Her hands twisted the napkin in her lap. Testify? No, no no, she couldn't do that... How- how dare he! How dare he interfere in her business like this! She couldn't- she couldn't- Who did he think he was?  
"Aiiiii!"  
Fifi.  
Claire turned her head irritably. _"Qu'est-ce que c'est passé?"_  
She entered the kitchen to see the poor housekeeper cowering in the corner. The words, "What's wrong?" were halfway out of her mouth when Fifi's index finger darted toward the window above the sink. A faint scratching sound was heard. Glancing up, she could make out a grey fluff ball against the frosted glass with his talons. Muffled hooting sounds came from the outside.  
An owl? Usually they perched on her balcony, not crash against the kitchen window. Claire rolled her wheelchair toward the counter and picked up the spatula. Stretching her arms over the sink - she couldn't get up to open the window - she managed to wedge the flat tip of the spatula between the ledge and the pane. Then, with a sudden push, she forced the window open a crack. Turning the cooking utensil around, she pushed the handle against the pane until it opened up large enough for the poor bird to get through.  
The owl tumbled headlong into the sink with a feeble "woo," and landed in the used mixing bowl. The bird lay very still. She thought that the creature had suffered a concussion, but then it raised its head weakly, blinking as if trying to see through a haze. The animal's vision focused; now aware of his location, the owl gave a start and frantically began clawing against the sides of the bowl. Clumps of batter smeared his limp feathers as he scrambled to get out.  
Claire clucked her tongue. "_Pauvre hibou_." She turned on the faucet and a stream of warm water poured out. Unfortunately, the owl reacted adversely to it, flapping desperately and getting even more sticky goo caught in his feathers.  
"Hold still. I'm only trying to help." Claire reached into the sink and grabbed the bird, shoving him under the flow. The owl gave a pitiful cry, but then relaxed as she gently combed out the clumps out of its plumage. Now that he was cleaner, she saw that he was an extremely ancient iron-blue creature, with a scrawny neck and large, mournful eyes.  
"There, there," she said. "That's a good bird." Looking down, she took off the little leather letter carrier tied onto its leg and placed it on the counter. It was probably another wolf asking for money.  
Bernard came back into the kitchen in a much sombre mood. "I need to speak with you," he began, then halted. "What are you doing?"  
"One of the owls came in through the kitchen window," she answered, somewhat stiffly. She lifted the sopping wet creature out of the sink and placed him on a dishtowel.  
He instantly cried out upon seeing him. "Aristotle..?" Practically jumping over a kitchen chair to get to the counter, he scooped the dripping bird into his arms. "Great spirits! I believed you were dead. Where have you been?"  
"Woo..." The owl blinked twice, then collapsed in exhaustion. Fifi eyed the creature distastefully as he dripped water onto the linoleum.  
"I will put Aristotle back in his cage. Claire, afterward may I speak with you in private? Fifi, could you wipe up this mess on the floor?" Bernard lessened his grip and patted the animal on the head. Aristotle's beak bobbed up and down exaggeratedly as he did so. "Good old Ari. I knew you were out there somewhere," he said to him. "Come on." He left the room again saying, "You have a new cage mate. Pascal's a philosopher and a mathematician just like you. I'm sure you two will become the best of friends..."  
Claire shook her head, still upset about the lawyer's call. If Bernard expected her to testify...  
The letter holder sat on the counter by the sink. She picked it up and took the message out, unrolling the small strip of parchment. The paper was damp at the edges, but the ink remained untouched. One English line was written in dark blue.

_Leave the balcony open tonight. Expect company._

She stuck the note into her robe pocket, leaving Fifi to clean up the puddle.  
Her brother had come down into the living room, sitting on the couch. The lights were dim, and his glasses adjusted themselves to it; she could see his eyes, murky red behind the lens.  
"How's Aristotle?" she asked.  
"Asleep. Did he still have my taxes on him?"  
_"Non."_  
"He must have lost them somewhere. No matter." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "About the call..."  
"Please don't tell me."  
"Eh..." He hesitated. "A few weeks ago, I sent a letter to the British Registry of Magical Creatures about your treatment in their custody..."  
An ominous feeling loomed over her. "What was in this letter, specifically?"  
"Well, I, um, told them that I would file a complaint against their department... in a very forward manner."  
To Claire, the words, "a very forward manner" did not have a truly civil connotation. "Did this letter by chance come in a bright red envelope?"  
"Maybe it did," Bernard drawled slowly.  
Worse and worse. A Howler. "And so?"  
"I had appealed to the International Council of Wizards for an investigation. The RMC denied that they had done anything wrong and stated that it was your lack of cooperation that lead to your ... accident..." He looked at her pointedly. "I want you to testify against them."  
"What- what do you mean?" she said. She felt her stomach lurch from a sudden nervousness. Her hands gripped the arms of the wheelchair.  
"Well, you can tell the Council it was due to the RMC's irresponsibility that you..." Bernard tried to find another euphemism, "became handicapped."  
No, it wasn't. "I told you before that I do not want to talk of it," she said coldly.  
"You don't have to be there. I was thinking of a mirror deposition. We can record it right up in my study in our lawyer's presence."  
"Bernard..." She put a hand to her temple, like a sudden headache struck her. "Why must you bring this up?"  
"This could mean getting the RMC the scrutiny they deserve." He couldn't help but look confused. "I thought you wanted this."  
"Then you were wrong."  
"Is it because it would be your word against theirs? You know we could win this case if we had the chance."  
"Don't try and make decisions for me!"  
Her sudden snap unhinged his composure for a moment. "I was making it for the clan's interest," he defended, glaring at her. His glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose. Damn it, was he giving her The Look? Yes, and the Older Brother Patronizing Look at that.  
"My concerns are not within the clan's interests."  
"They are to me."  
She pursed her lips into a thin line as her eyes narrowed. "We will not address this now."  
"We will."  
The two stared at each other. Claire would never forget her LOCD condition and would never refuse the potion if it were offered to her. Both of them knew that. There had to be a very strong reason why she had declined. She saw the expression on her brother's face. He wanted to know that reason.  
Claire's heart was thumping in her ears. He couldn't know, no one could know - why did he have to stick his nose into her affairs? This was her problem, not his!  
"I want an answer, sister." It was a rare moment when he didn't address her by name.  
She drew in a long breath. This was her brother for God's sake! Who would speak of an assault in front of their own brother? "It was irresponsibility upon my part that I did not take the Wolfsbane Potion." Exhale, drive out the pain. Crumple it up into a tight little ball. Stow it far away from her. "Is that what you want to hear?"  
His eyes broke away. Disappointment.  
"Oh." he said softly.  
"So you see, the matter is very simple," she added. "Please don't bring it up again."  
He began gruffly, "But I already had our lawyer-"  
"Tell him to drop the charges."  
A lengthy pause.  
"All right." He pushed the bridge of his glasses up again and rose to his feet hastily. "I... I have to pick up some files I left at my office. I might run some other errands as well."  
"Today is Saturday. Wouldn't the Centre be closed?"  
"I have a key."  
She nodded.  
"Remember to feed the owls this afternoon. I'll check up with you on my cellular phone if I'm gone for more than a couple hours." He passed by her, his hands shoved deeply in his pockets. She knew he would be gone the rest of the day.  
He meant well. She credited him for that. But could he even begin to understand? She feared even mentioning the subject to him. Males couldn't know, because of their very nature, what it was like to be assaulted that way. To be shoved into the ground, to be touched in places where one didn't want to be touched, to know that it would hurt, that the pain would be unbearable-  
She didn't want to tell anyone this. Like she had told her brother, she only wanted to forget. Forget and live on. If she spoke her experience aloud, she feared that it would be like opening Pandora's box - unleashing terrors and memories that she was trying so hard to suppress.  
This was her life, and no one could dictate it for her. Not her interfering brother or anyone else. And so she did not want to speak of it, she wouldn't. Let dead dogs lie in their graves.

Much later, when the shadows of night stretched themselves across her balcony, Claire waited up in her room. Down the hall, she could hear her brother snoring away. She checked the Muggle clock that sat on her desk. Half an hour before midnight.  
Since her arrival, her room had undergone some serious renovations. Clean sheets and curtains were one change, and additional furniture was another; it had been converted into a temporary office of sorts. A heavy mahogany desk squatted next to the balcony doors, and boxes of files and books lined the walls. The bookshelves were full as well, yet only the third and fourth shelves were used on each one. The other ledges were either too low or too high for her to reach from her wheelchair.  
She ran her hand along the edge of one of these shelves, trying to distract herself. Not to say she was nervous... well, maybe a bit. It was just that Toby's reaction had been so... She had never confronted anyone besides her family, and she could remember their reaction towards her perfectly. Pity. She saw it in their eyes. And she saw it in Toby's eyes, if just for a moment. And she hated that. She refused to be a victim of pity.  
Suddenly, a thin, python coil of black arched from the garden below-  
_Clang!_  
The claw-like grappling head hooked itself around the stone pillars of the balcony. She put a hand to the door and saw the rope jostle and shake - someone was climbing up. Within minutes, a grey head crested over the stone platform, reflecting silver in the half-moon's glow. Backing her chair away, she waited, arms on the rims, as Ulysses reached the landing and swung his legs over the side, his boots thumping against the platform.  
Night portrayed him in a better light than day. The soft shadows masked over his age; ten years wiped away with a single stroke. And then she could see Ulysses at her gate all those years ago, standing in the lightly falling rain with his weather-beaten crew, asking if she had any Marmite and toast because it had been three years since he had last tasted any.  
And this man was here on her balcony a decade later with another favour in mind. A small service she wasn't sure she could do.  
"Hello," Ulysses said softly. "It's been a while."  
_"Oui,"_ she agreed. "It 'as."  
Bernard's snores halted for a moment - Claire darted her eyes toward the door. Ulysses hand went to the rope. Tension filled the air. Her brother coughed aloud - several apprehensive seconds passed - he settled back down. One loud, long snore. Claire breathed again.  
The grizzled werewolf seated himself down on the ottoman in front of the bed. "Comfortable place you have here," he commented, gazing around the dim room. He leaned against one of the canopy bed's wooden posts. "I'm glad the owl came through. Thought maybe it keeled over halfway."  
His speech was unique to her ears. The uneducated tongue of a lifetime traveller, his vernacular was picked up in bits and pieces. Years before when the camps were started in America, many wolves escaped rather than be reined in. When he was a pup, local Muggles had confused his Texan family with a coyote gang.  
"Zat was my brozzer's owl actually," she said coolly. "Where did you find 'im?"  
"In a countryside ditch. He had his leg broken." Ulysses added, somewhat disdainfully, "Your brother doesn't seem to know how to care for animals."  
" 'E does," she defended brusquely. "Except when 'e loves zem to death." She got her own point across. "You don't 'ave to dislike Bernard just because you disliked my fazzer."  
"They share the same name," he replied curtly. His voice softened upon seeing the expression on her face. "Is it safe to turn on the light?"  
She hesitated before moving towards the glass desk lamp. She turned the knob slowly, then closed her eyes so she couldn't see his reaction.  
The silence was deafening.  
A question. "May I ask how bad is it?"  
"I 'ave a steel rod in my back and an artificial 'ip. Ze brace on my left leg is temporary to support my 'ip; ze brace on my back will stay for zree months. Ze doctors say zat I won't be able to live independently anymore, even if I do ever get out of ze chair." She paused before saying her final sentence. "I feel like I am an 'undred years old."  
"What about durin' transformin'? Doesn't the body heal itself-?"  
"Well, if a wolf 'as a 'unk of metal in them, she can't expect ze transformation to create a bone pelvis out of it." She didn't want to mention how her brother sedated her the night of the full moon. Ten separate shots, each made at half-hour intervals before moonrise - he was afraid of overdosing, but more afraid if her wolf ran wild while injured. She couldn't even take the Wolfsbane Potion, for it could not subdue the throes of transformation.  
"Claire, I-"  
"Don't apologize for my mistakes," she cut off quickly. "Be grateful for yourself instead." She opened her eyes. "Are we going to speak of Jarohnen now?"  
Ulysses scratched at his beard thoughtfully. "I wasn't goin' to say sorry," he said gently. "I know you can figure out how to get over this. Jus' as long as you don't be mopin' 'round 'stead of gettin' down to business."  
Claire actually smiled. At least she had someone who believed in her. "I scheduled physical zairapy classes."  
"Good. I expect to see some walkin' done 'fore next year, hmmm?" He winked in that capricious way of his, so that he dark eyes glinted. "Jaroh wouldn't want to see you straddled down here in France until the end of days."  
Her spirits fell. "Toby must 'ave told you already." She wet her lips and said candidly, "I'm not sure if I can 'elp you."  
"Can't help? Or won't?" He chuckled as if the latter was too amusing to be true.  
"I'm not sure."  
"Hmmm." Ulysses saw that she was serious. "Care to explain?"  
"What 'e did..." She started again. "Zose people shouldn't 'ave died."  
She closed her eyes, thinking of the stories that had come out in the newspapers, the stories that she had heard after her release from the hospital. The news was still fresh in the wizarding public's mind that Jarohnen Ianikit had tortured and killed five RMC officers that bitterly cold night in November of last year. She had not believed it when she had first heard it, but then the information had become so plain and commonly known that now whenever she heard that name, it was always followed by the label "murderer." Or "werewolf extremist." And later on, when public memorials were held to those who died, she had heard the stories of those poor officers. One left behind a pregnant wife and child. Another was the only one who could care for her aging uncle. A Hogwarts Head Girl. An only child of an Indian immigrant family. The driver had been a newcomer to the job, with only two weeks under his belt.  
Claire felt sympathy for those poor families left behind. Yet it was not the same feeling of pain she had felt when she saw Jarohnen collapse to his knees after Parsons's Safehouse sweep, crying over the broken Stradivarius, the only thing that reminded him of his wife and family who had been killed almost 50 years before.  
"Did you read the paper?"  
"Ze_ Werewolf Manifesto_?" She reached behind her to where the paper lay folded up against her brace. She had read the document many, many times, mouthing the words silently to herself. The Manifesto reminded her of Jarohnen's soft but distinct accent, and how it always coated his words like tempered steel. One would think that with his teeth, he would make whistling sounds whenever he talked, but Jarohnen was a true orator. She remembered whenever he spoke, how his back would seem rod straight, despite the crooked spine, and his chest rise up and how those eyes could peer into a wolf's very soul. Then he would part those lips and that voice would strike through the body like a bolt of electricity. The voice that had been reduced to a distorted echo through the RMC dungeon walls.  
She asked a question that had been bothering her since Toby's visit. "Toby said you contacted 'im. 'Ow did you do zat?"  
Ulysses casually replied, "I'm not at liberty to say."  
"Why?"  
"If I say it's 'cause then I'd have to kill you, would that be believable? Or does that sound too clichéd?"  
Claire blinked. "Do you mean it?"  
"Yes," Ulysses said. "I do."  
She expected him to laugh, but he didn't. He went on in that easygoing, conversational tone, "He always had the gift for talkin' nice. This is much better than them ol' pamphlets he handed out. Remember those?"  
She nodded slowly, counting the questions in her mind. She couldn't know how Ulysses was speaking to Jarohnen, yet he wanted her to help him escape? And what of those little things she had taken for granted before? The hidden microphone in Toby's ear, for example, or the grappling hook Ulysses had used to climb onto the balcony. Where did those come from? Jarohnen had friends in many places, but Ulysses didn't necessary like to involve his Freedom Hounds with those militant wolves. Yet if Jarohnen were ever in trouble, why would she ever doubt that these separate parts would unite into one? Especially after reading about Jarohnen's specific urges for cooperation in the very document she held in her hand.  
"We had to plough through a dozen reams of paper in a week every time he wanted to get the word out. Campaigns need a jumpstart, Claire, they need support."  
"So zat is why you came?"  
"That's what _we_ are. You, me, the Hounds, Garrett Walters, the Gaczyna pack, everybody. His escape is our greatest campaign yet."  
She stared grimly at him. "In Novi Sad, Yugoslavia, wolves broke into a Muggle military stockpile and stole two crates of AK-47 sub-machine guns, then 'eld protest at ze Safehouse zair. Zey lit wizard effigies on fire and burned zair Registry identification. As of tonight, zey are dead, killed by ze Yugoslavian Ministry. Were zose wolves inspired by 'is words? Were zey part of zis campaign?"  
No answer.  
"Did you distribute zem, Ulysses? 'Ow far did zis spread? 'Ow many wolves did ze Manifesto reach?"  
"You sound like you drank a cup of bitter," he commented. "Don't tell me you haven't been takin' your medication?"  
"I'm not in a joking mood," she replied.  
"Hmmmm..." He exhaled, and leaned back against the post. "How much did you read about them Novi Sad wolves?" he asked, beating around the bush.  
"Only what is said in ze news."  
"The _wizard_ news." Ulysses licked his dry lips. "Did you hear about when the Werewolf Capture Unit invaded that Safehouse, they found a shrine?"  
"A shrine? To who?"  
"To our Jaroh. There were candles lit, an' his clan emblem painted red on the walls an' these words in dark charcoal: 'We fight for Ianikit.' He's the first wolf, Claire, an' everybody's payin' homage to him."  
"For what?" For killing people? She held her tongue to keep from saying that aloud.  
"He's the first who actually did something many of us have wanted to do for a long, long time. Our people couldn't stand up to them wizards. They were too frightened." Ulysses then hunched forward, and folded his hands together. "But we tried, right?"  
We. The Freedom Hounds. "We tried and were beaten."  
"If we were beaten, we wouldn't be talkin' right now, would we?" Ulysses went on, "We never stopped. There are packs all over the continent, Claire. Wolves you never knew who are workin' for our cause. Wolves from all over, like me who couldn't go home. Or like Jaroh who have none to go to. We wandered the Muggle world and went establishin' networks of communication. Bidin' our time, askin' who would be the first wolf. Keepin' quiet and sufferin' and bein' victimized an' dehumanized 'cause them wizards are ridin' their high horses and prancin' all ov'r us. We cowered like dogs, Claire. Admit it. We all did.  
"Then our comrade got the git enough to finally go do somethin' an' he got caught. When Jaroh was first thrown in the Kennel, wolves despaired. 'Them wizards won 'fore we even started,' they were thinkin'. But this-" He gestured to the _Werewolf Manifesto_ in her hand. "This changes everythin'. Wolves have hope now that we can survive through anythin' wizards throw at us. This hope lasts forever, Claire, even beyond the grave."  
She sighed and bit her lip. He was trying to weave that web again, that web of glory and heroics and righteousness. The same web that had drawn her in before years before, when she was the insignificant daughter of the Alpha male, cast off because she would never be eligible for leader of the pack. Except then, Jarohnen was the one who had spun the silken strings, and now he was not here.  
Claire shook her head. "What bravery springs from reckless violence," she whispered.  
He misinterpreted. "I know. We need to gather all this energy an' sublimate it. Jaroh was the spark, an' we're the breath that stirs up the flame."  
"Towards what?" She quoted Ianikit's words, "'Ze werewolves, in a final revolution, will seek to destroy every sign of wizard oppression, no matter what ze consequences.'" Her voice ended in a questioning note.  
"It's sacrificin' he's promotin'," Ulysses argued.  
"Sacrificing who? Who are we sacrificing?" She added darkly, "Or what?"  
Ulysses stared at her as if she had grown two heads. "You're afraid? I've never known you to be afraid of anybody."  
"Look at me." Her fist hit the armrest of her wheelchair. " 'Ave I done enough?" She blinked hard. "Tell me," she whispered fiercely. "Tell me zat whatever more we 'ave to sacrifice, we will not do it in anger."  
_Like Jarohnen did,_ she thought. _Is this what we are promoting? If Jarohnen walks free, will the flag we raise be stained in blood? _  
The unspoken words echoed between them. Ulysses only sighed and bowed his head, propping one elbow on his knee while the knuckle pressed against his forehead. He remained in that position for several minutes, paralleling the Thinker in his stonily solitude. Claire, hesitant, wheeled her chair near him and put a hand on his shoulder, biting her tongue. She was afraid she would say something that she would regret.  
A low whisper. "Do you hate him for it? For what he did that night?"  
Oddly enough, that question was the farthest from her mind. "What does zat 'ave to do wiz anything?"  
"Everythin'." He gave her glance out of the corner of his eye, waiting.  
"Oh, Ulysses-" She let her hand drop. Did she?  
Her mind wanted to. She wanted to feel a sicken lurch in her stomach every time his name was mentioned; she wanted to ward him off like he was a scourge. Murderers should be hated with a vengeance and be faced with public ignominy until the very end of their days. They should be despised because no human should ever, ever chose to take another sentient life in prejudice. Jarohnen had killed them because he could.  
She wanted to say that he was a hypocrite and an abominable wolf because he should have known better. He knew that pain of loss! How could he inflict it upon others so purposefully? He was an intelligent wolf. He should know the oppressed should never act like the oppressors.  
Yet her heart was a different story. Jarohnen was her friend. She had known him for years. She had heard the soul-swaying songs on his precious Stradivarius. She had shouted with him as the rallying crowds roared; she had hidden with him within the hull of a speeding motorboat as it raced across the Channel away from the border police.  
It was too easy to brand strangers with condemning labels. To read in the paper about a travesty and denounce the criminal. Look at that wolf! Killed five officers, you say? Who would do such a thing? Only monsters! And look at him, he looks so human! What do you expect nowadays? You can never tell with werewolves!  
The wolf she knew wasn't a two-dimensional killer sprung from the headlines, but a flesh-and-blood being from life.  
Another argument sprang from her reasoning. She had heard him weeks ago. He was beyond himself. He watched five people writhe in pain. And who knew what more he would have done if he had gotten away with it? Five could have become ten, twenty, fifty...  
The voice she had heard in the London dungeon could not be connected with her friend. Yet she knew they were one and the same. If only she could detach the two, if only she could shut the wicked, babbling voice in a little box and bury it deep in the earth, if only she could banish that demon that possessed his mind or burn it to a crisp in the roaring furnace of unwanted memories. Then she would only have that wolf she knew.  
A sigh escaped her lips, but Ulysses wasn't moved. She knew what he was thinking. You won't become your father or your brother, will you? Your father, the wolf who called the us Freedom Hounds a pack of anarchists? The one who tried to turn us in to the French Department for the Regulation of Non-Wizard, Part-Human Creatures? We were forced to flee across the Channel to England because of your father and that bumbling son of his, the albino who is trying to follow his sire's pawprints. Will you side with him?  
Reasons and memories and thoughts and outcries and regrets entangled her in their silk-iron grip, all twisted and encompassing and binding in their hold. She wanted to separate the tangled skein or at least weave the strands into two distinguishable patterns. She wanted dualism; she needed dualism! Whatever happened to those little archetypes that perched on each shoulder and prattled their comments into confused ears? Where was the dancing devil with his fire and brimstone? Where was the glowing seraph, benevolent in its tranquillity? Where could she find them, because then it would make her life so much easier! Look, he's wearing Satan's horns and twirling a sooty pitchfork in his hand! He must be evil; don't choose him!  
She looked silently, searchingly. There was no devil in this room. Only she and Ulysses, and both were far from becoming demons.  
Many minutes passed as she analyzed these strange thoughts, while she knew her answer all along. "Jarohnen can never be my enemy," she whispered. "I condemn what 'e did... but not 'im."  
A smile crossed Ulysses' face. The web was cast. "Exactly."

Chapter 6

Inside the cave, something was dripping. Sirius, supine on the dirty blanket, tilted his head toward the noise. According to reasonable logic, nothing should be dripping. There was no underground stream located within, or any holes in the craggy roof that lead to the outside, through which melted snow could drip through. If something dared run down a stalactite here, then it couldn't be melted snow. Buckbeak had established a ledge to relieve himself on during snow storms so he wouldn't have to bother with going outside, but surely something like that, even in liquid form, couldn't trickle from the ceiling.  
Maybe Sirius was simply hallucinating.  
_Drip._  
_Drip._  
_Drip._  
Or maybe not.  
"Hey, Buckbeak," he called out. "Did you hear something?"  
He had forgotten that the hippogriff wasn't in the cave. Of course he wasn't; Buckbeak had left to go hunting for whatever was left to be found. If Lupin had been right about anything before he left, it was the fact that game was becoming scarce on this mountain. Sirius' stomach growled in confirmation. He grumbled to himself. Buckbeak had better haul his horsehair butt back here as fast as possible. Certainly small game couldn't take that long to root up. Squirrels could be particularly slow when just awakened from their winter slumber. Rats were harder to scrounge up, although Sirius had been successful during a few hunting trips through Hogsmeade's rubbish cans.  
His choice in foodstuffs would disgust many, but Sirius had a versatile appetite. Squirrel meat, for instance, wasn't as horrible as most people assumed. A bit stringy for Sirius' taste, but with a bit of salt (that is, if he had any salt) the taste resembled chicken. Well, at least that of a scrawny, acorn-eating chicken.  
On the other hand, despite the fact that rats were of little sustenance to Sirius, he liked hunting them very much. Rats had quickly become his favourite food item as a dog. Late hours during the night were spent musing about unusual recipes involving this small creature. Rat soufflé, rat kabobs, rat on the barbie, rat stew, stuffed rat, fried rat, rat puree, marinated rat, rat sandwiches, rat blood pudding, rat mince pie, chopped rat on toast - the ideas never ceased. In particular, Sirius liked to envision a certain man's terror-stricken face every time he pounced on one. Die, Peter! Chomp!  
Yet he still maintained some sense of humanity. _Eating people is wrong,_ Sirius reasoned, _but rats are tasty._  
He rolled over onto his stomach and picked up a half-charred stick.  
With a lazy hand, he stirred the glowing embers of the fire, watching the pale wisps of ash blow about.  
Was this what his life was reduced to? Cave-sulking? Rodent-eating?  
His eye roamed to the pile of covered newspaper clippings in the corner. All that Ministry crap wasn't clueing him into anything worthwhile. Hell, he was so tempted to go down to Hogwarts himself in his Animagi form. Check up on Harry. See Crookshanks once again. Maybe get some real food.  
Would Harry know anything about Lupin's predicament? Most likely not - the Triwizard Tournament was keeping him on his toes. Sirius couldn't bear to put any more pressure on the boy anyhow. He couldn't even write to him that he was hiding out nearby - partly because he feared revealing his location, and partly because he wasn't sure how he would act if Harry should come and visit.  
Sure, he had adored him as a baby with James and Lily. And might a basilisk's stare strike him down if Sirius didn't care for him. Harry did look so much like James it was almost frightening.  
Harry wasn't a child anymore, though. How old? Sirius mentally counted the years - fourteen. Rowdy teenage years already? Ye gods, how much he had missed! It was beyond all logical probability that Sirius could ever have Harry live with him now - not while he was still on the run, not with all of this tumult that Harry was being plunged into. His hope could not be denied, however, that he would have a chance to raise a child.  
He had never really put any deep thought into a family before. Asking Harry to live with him last summer had seemed like the right thing to do, despite the fact he had no knowledge about parenthood. After all, the last thirteen years or so had more or less been spent thinking about was various ways of killing Peter Pettigrew or wallowing in his personal mental torture. Probably it was the time he had spent with Lupin's pup that had steered his mind more towards childrearing.  
He sighed. Mary was Lupin's miracle, wasn't she? Sirius crossed his arms, as if the glowing logs' warmth wasn't enough. He cursed himself for letting his friend go. Lupin was doing a damn foolhardy thing - going off to find her like that. Why couldn't Sirius explain to him what he saw? Another sigh escaped him. Lupin wouldn't have believed him. And maybe Sirius didn't want to believe it either. Although he hadn't known her for long, from the time the three had been together, he could tell that there was something strangely endearing about the child. And he didn't want to think that Lupin had it in him to put a bullet through someone he loved. It seemed almost inhuman.  
In the dank, cold cave, he greeted his old friend Nostalgia. Why, he could lose himself like he had so many times since Lupin left. That warm house, that good food, and, most of all, that cherished brotherhood which had held everything together. There had been no worries last December, besides the concern about the girl's health. Yet she still had had that teasing tone in her voice when she said:

_"You can't tell a story, chicken-man." The nickname, which given after Sirius's fabricated reputation from his poultry-thieving past, was in common use now, especially considering the light-hearted atmosphere. Mary sat up, propped by a pillow, and snuggled the quilted comforter against her small chest. _  
_"Is that an assumption I'm hearing?" Sirius arched an eyebrow. "You forget that I am a despicable fiend at heart, my dear. How could I have gained such a prestigious reputation as a poultry-snatcher if I hadn't learned how to spin a few tales to tell the authorities?"_  
_Lupin sat upon the bedspread, hands folded in his lap, an amused expression on his face. "I remember some of those tales myself," he added slyly. "But perhaps excuses that a dragon torched your Arithmacy homework doesn't qualify for much." He was in a more relaxed state than he had been in days, and Sirius welcomed his playfulness. _  
_"Fanciful narratives about Sir What's-His-Name and his fair Princesses and battling stereotypical Welsh Greens can only be tolerated for so many nights," Sirius replied casually. "One more medieval tale and I swear I'll suffer a mental breakdown."_  
_"What's wrong with my stories?" Lupin inquired._  
_"Nothing," Sirius answered, "except that they're always variations of some fellow galloping on a white horse to rescue some maiden from one monstrosity or another. Please, the damse- in-distress dribble has become so dead-beat boring and repetitive that I'm almost starting to believe that you're against the whole feminist movement or something."_  
_"I have no issues against women's rights." Lupin rolled his eyes. "That's just how the story goes."_  
_Sirius tossed his hand up. "And goes and goes and goes." _  
_"Fine," Lupin gave an open-armed gesture. "Tonight will be your turn."_  
_"Simply splendid of you, Rem. Maybe you could use this time to brainstorm some new plot ideas." He pulled up his chair closer to the canopy bedside. _  
_He answered back, "I suppose I'm taking a lesson from the master."_  
_"No doubt." Sirius took a sip of water from a glass on the bed stand and straightened himself up exaggeratedly. Mary listened attentively. "Once upon a time there were these Three Little Pigs, and two of those pigs weren't the sharpest quills in the inkpot," he began. "The first pig built his house out of straw and the second one built his out of twigs. The third pig was the genius out of the litter and built his out of bricks." Sirius used little hand motions while he talked, pantomiming the construction of the three houses. "Then one day," he continued, "a Big Bad Wolf came out of the forest-"_  
_Mary interrupted with a suppressed giggle. Sirius paused. "No offence to you, Rem," he apologised. "Either of you, I mean." _  
_Lupin and his pup exchanged glances as if they knew something he didn't. "Can you think of a more politically correct term?" the elder werewolf asked coyly. "For our sakes."_  
_"Not all wolves are bad," Mary added._  
_"Well, fine." Sirius considered this for a few moments. "How about the Big, Misunderstood Wolf?"_  
_Lupin's eyes met Mary's again, a crooked grin across his face. Mary tried covering her mouth with one hand, her shoulders shaking. _  
_Sirius folded his hands across his chest. "Hey, who's the storyteller here?" He gave them a mockingly stern eye. When they calmed down, he continued, "Anyhow, that Big, Misunderstood Wolf came out of the forest. He was basically on the brink of starvation and wanted something to munch on. So he looked about-" Sirius shaded his eyes and peered around him "-and saw the three little pigs frolicking outside, rolling in their mud puddles, picking daisies, and doing all that happy stuff pigs do. And he thought to himself, 'Lunchtime.' " _  
_Lupin cleared his throat loudly._  
_"Not to say that he was actually going to go and eat the pigs," Sirius added hastily. "No one knew it, but the Big, Misunderstood Wolf was a vegetarian. When he saw the pigs and thought, 'Lunchtime,' he wasn't necessarily thinking about the pigs being lunch, but that since all pigs are herbivores, they could offer him a scrumptious vegetable cuisine that would subdue his hunger."_  
_"What's a veg-i-tary-an?" Mary inquired._  
_"That is someone who prefers not to consume animals or animal by-products because of moral or dietary preferences," Lupin explained._  
_Sirius wondered if the explanation had cleared things up or confused her more. The girl nodded slowly. "But what about everyone else who likes to eat meat?" she asked curiously._  
_"Well, it's all a matter of opinion," Sirius said. "In prison, we didn't get anything but gruel and water. So technically, I was a vegetarian for twelve years. But then again," he added, "I think they were more considered about maintaining a cheap budget than our moral or dietary preferences." _  
_He went on before either one of his companions could make further comment. "So anyway, the Big, Misunderstood Wolf headed over to those pigs to say hello. Yet upon seeing him, all three of them squealed aloud, ran into their houses and locked up the doors. Well, to the wolf this seemed like a most discourteous act. He went up to the first house and rapped ever so politely upon the front door. He noticed that this house was made out of straw, and in his immense strength, he made a dent into the door. A burst of dust and straw was unleashed into the air, and this triggered his horrible hay fever. _  
_" 'Little pig, little pig,' he called in a friendly tone. The wolf sounded a bit nasal because he was trying to keep himself from sneezing. 'May I please come in?' The little pig replied, 'No way!'_  
_"The wolf thought that pig was making an awfully rude first impression. So he said, 'Well, why not? I've only come in hopes of encountering some of that renowned swine hospitality. Would you please open the door for me?'_  
_"He could hear that pig laughing behind the door. 'That is the cheapest excuse in the book!' he scoffed. 'Why should I believe you?'_  
_"Now the Big, Misunderstood Wolf had a really low tolerance for such an attitude. Plus, his nose was starting to irritate him dreadfully. He growled, 'I will not stand out here and be insulted like this!' Upon shouting that, his nose twitched, his lungs jumped, and he gave the loudest, most tremendous sneeze heard this side of Avalon. 'Aaaaaaaaaacchhhooooooo!' " Sirius imitated the sneeze so preposterously, that he sent Mary into a fit of giggles again. _  
_"In fact, that sneeze was so gigantic that house was blown to bits. A cloud of straw and dust flew in the air, and the Big, Misunderstood Wolf was caught in a paroxysm of coughs and sneezes. The former occupant of the straw house stood dazed in the middle of the empty clearing, yelped like a dragon was at his heels, and dashed over to the next house. _  
_"The Big, Misunderstood Wolf wiped his nose on his robe sleeve. 'Serves that bugger right to have his house blown over,' he thought self-righteously. "What kind of fool would build a house out of straw anyway?' On the other hand, it was a horrible accident on the wolf's part that led to the collapse of the first pig's straw house. So he hurried over to the second house in order to apologise to him. _  
_"Unfortunately, he was unable to accomplish this. At the stick house, he didn't even have a chance to open his mouth when the bellow of an angry pig assaulted him. _  
_"'We're calling the authorities on you!' the second pig threatened._

_"'And we're going to sue for damages!' added the first pig insultingly._  
_" 'SUE?' the Big, Misunderstood Wolf thought angrily."_  
_"Sue?" Lupin interrupted. "Sirius, what kind of fairy tale is this turning out to be?"_  
_"Hey, I'm only giving an original take on things," Sirius protested. "And I was just getting into the spirit of the story. Mary, aren't you enjoying this?"_  
_Mary gave him a confused expression. "Can you really sue in a fairy tale?" _  
_"In this fairy tale you can." Sirius hurried on, "'Well,' thought the wolf, 'not all the gold in Gringotts is going to make me apologise now!' On his way back, the wolf got so peeved, he kicked at the corner edge of that twig house. There was a loud cracking sound, the whole frame shuttered and boom! The stick house fell in one swoop, leaving those idiot pigs cowering in a corner with a cauldron over their heads._  
_"These pigs peeked out from beneath their cauldron to find that their house was gone and they were left all by themselves, unprotected from the wolf." Sirius threw his hands up lightly and shook them. " 'Ahhhhh!' the little ninnies screamed. The Big, Misunderstood Wolf had half a mind to chase them down and give them a good reprimand for their actions, but the two pigs ran off, pushing their little trotters over to the brick house. _  
_"Again, the Big, Misunderstood found himself in the same predicament as before - probably even worse, because he had destroyed not one, but two houses whose owners he barely knew. Guilt-ridden, he went over to the brick house._  
_"'Little pigs, little pigs, may I come in?' he asked. 'I am overflowing with regret and am absolutely shameful about my actions. It was all an accident, but I promise to pay for the damages I've caused.' "_  
_" 'You bet you'll pay!' came the trio of voices from behind the door. At that very moment, a squad of policemen flew by on their brooms. Before he could say a word in his defence, he was arrested and taken to jail."_  
_"That's not fair!" Mary exclaimed. "The Big, Misunderstood Wolf said he was sorry."_  
_"I'm not finished yet," Sirius said. "So the pigs took the Big, Misunderstood Wolf to court on a lawsuit for three thousand, two hundred, fifty-four Galleons and twelve Knuts for restitution. They hired the best prosecutor in Fairy-Land Woods to represent them. But the wolf, you see, he hired the best defence barrister to advocate his side. You wouldn't believe the publicity this trial received. All the creatures from the Fairy-Land Woods flocked over to witness the event. It was covered live by Fairy-Land Woods News Station and by all the Fairy-Land Woods newspapers. Bets were taken about the trial's outcome._  
_"While the case was processing through the courts, the Big, Misunderstood Wolf's family sued the pigs for emotional distress brought about by their relation being stuck in jail. Then, the pigs countersued them for emotional stress due to their trial, which was brought about because of their relation. Then, the Wolf family countersued that, and the pigs countersued that-"_  
_Mary yawned. "Boring..."_  
_"It was. And it drained everyone of money to sue and countersue and back again. The cases took months to get through the courts. Other fairy-land creatures, having nothing else really to do, would watch for hours and hours on end as the two barristers butted heads upon this viewpoint and that evidence and whatnot. But in the end, the Big, Misunderstood Wolf had his way. The first lawsuit was dropped, and that was the end of it."_  
_Mary looked at Sirius oddly. "But what about the pigs and the countersues and stuff?"_  
_"The loser piggies cried 'Wee, wee, wee, wee!' all the way home. All the suits were thrown out of court when the judge broke down and said how the next Apocalypse was upon them with such ignoramuses coming to the courthouse. The Big, Misunderstood Wolf was relieved that all the controversy ended, of course, but the expenses of hiring the best counsellor in the land got him in debt for the next six months." Sirius looked to Lupin for approval. "Well?"_  
_"You mean nobody lived happily ever after?" Mary exclaimed, dumbfounded. "I don't mean to hurt your feelings, but that was plain weird. I like Remmy's knights and princesses better."_  
_"The barristers certainly lived happily ever after; they got the money," Sirius reasoned. "Does that count for anything?"_  
_Lupin shook his head. "I guess our infamous chicken thief has gotten quite cynical from his years in prison," he commented lightly._  
_"Cynical isn't the word," Sirius replied. "It's called a realistic sense of justice."_

_Drip. _  
_Drip._  
_Drip._  
God dammit, where the bloody hell was that coming from? Sirius threw the stick down and scrambled to his feet. He couldn't take this anymore!  
Stomping outside, Sirius halted at the cave entrance. The temperature was unusually mild for early February; in fact, the snow was starting to melt. He metamorphosed into his dog form and headed down the mountain. Forget Buckbeak; Sirius was off to find his own grub.  
He bounded down the rocky trail towards the small foothills at the base of the mountain. A stick forest of dry brush and skeleton trees awaited him. Burying his nose amid the snow and wet leaves, Sirius sniffed for any animal scent. Nothing. The cold stung his nose; he lifted his head and snorted in frustration. His stomach growled further and he bounded on.  
If Sirius had searched more thoroughly, he would have found an acorn cache by an ancient maple. Unfortunately, hunger goaded him to impatience. Also, Sirius became awfully cranky when hungry. At Azkaban, prisoners were tormented for hours on end, but no one ever died of starvation.  
So his self-pitying mood and his unhappy stomach created a foul mood for Sirius. He ploughed on through the forest, becoming more and more irritated as he came closer to the village.  
_Perhaps I could knock down a good rubbish can,_ he thought as he trailed his nose along the ground. _Find some rancid meat and mouldy cheese, or munch on a rat or two-_  
Sirius raised his head to find something quite unexpected. Another dog's muzzle in his face.  
_Whoa!_ He backed up a few steps, startled. The black Lab stared at him, moving its head about curiously. In turn, Sirius stared back. This only lasted a few moments, though; Sirius didn't really want to bother with anything but an over-flowing trashcan at the moment. He briskly walked around the other dog and headed toward the forest opening.  
Soon, however, he noticed that he was being followed. A glance behind him revealed that the Lab was slowly trailing him. _Great_, he thought irritably to himself. He halted again and so did his second shadow. Sirius turned around and sat on his haunches. _What does this fellow expect us to do?_ he wondered. _Sniff each other's butts?_  
The Lab continued to watch him with large, dark eyes. It blinked.  
_Was there some sort of canine signal that I'm forgetting here? _Siriusthought. True, his Animagus form did possess some dog instincts that reared its head up now and then. He had been using his Animagus form for so long, however, that Sirius was able to overcome whatever impulses the animal nature gave off. His stomach gave another whiny growl, demanding his attention. Sirius sighed (in this form, it looked like he was giving a doggie raspberry), and then barked. A rough translation would be: _Go away!_  
Yet the Lab was still persistent. It wouldn't budge. Sirius didn't want to be violent with the fellow, but he didn't like the thought of having a tag-along either. Nevertheless, he wasn't going to get into a scuffle just because he was annoyed. Given that his stomach remained empty for another hour, however, he just might have to reconsider that decision.  
Sirius continued on his quest for the garbage can, now accompanied by another. As he approached the first house he saw, though, his hopes dropped.  
No trash cans at all. Today must not be the day for collecting. Just his luck.  
The Lab moved up beside him and blinked. Sirius turned his shaggy head to face the creature. Did the Lab have a dry-eye problem or something?  
His stomach gave its call again; this time it was loud enough to be heard. The Lab's ears perked up and it began to sniff inquisitively at his middle.  
Sirius sidestepped away immediately. _What, you've never seen a hungry pooch before? _He wished he had the human features to say that.  
The Lab backed away this time, then loped on ahead. After a few paces, however, it turned its head to look back at him.  
_Does the fellow want me to follow now?_ Sirius wondered. He hesitated. This dog did seem to appear out of nowhere, and Sirius didn't like sudden appearances. Besides that, who could say that this creature wasn't an Animagus as well? Being an illegal one himself, Sirius was wary of the possibilities of others with this magical knack. When he had first met Crookshanks, Hermione Granger's pet, for instance, he had suspected that he was an Animagus. As time passed, Crookshanks had lost his suspect status and become Sirius's closest ally while he lived around Hogwarts. It was only much later that did Sirius figured out that Crookshanks was a Kneazle, and possessed intelligence beyond that of normal animals.  
Was this dog magical as well? Sirius took note of its appearance. It appeared to be a regular black Labrador with chocolate-flecked haunches. Nothing out of the unusual, certainly.  
Sirius decided to take a chance and play along. As soon as he took a step forward, the Lab turned its head and resumed its journey.  
It seemed that the Lab was leading Sirius towards the centre of town. Again, he balked; he liked to stick by the countryside, which was closer to his hideout. On the other paw, there was one thing that deterred this line of thinking: the smell of food. Beef Wellington to be precise. And freshly baked bread. Oh, was that roasted chicken...? He quickened his pace.  
The trek ended at the Three Broomsticks. The Lab arrived at the backdoor of the establishment and pawed at the door. It then sat down contently and glanced at Sirius again. Sirius joined in the wait, investigating about the back wall to kill time. He wished he knew how to do something to stop the awkward silence. How did dogs exchange small talk, anyway? Oh yeah. They sniffed at each other.  
The backdoor opened and an outpouring of delicious smells came from within. Sirius popped his head up to see Madame Rosmerta in the doorframe with a tin plate over-brimming with scraps.  
"Brought a friend along with you today, eh Zaria?" she said, stepping outside. Sirius stopped himself from jumping her. His excitement was expressed by his wagging tail, which became a furry, black blur.  
Madame Rosmerta settled the tin down on the ground and reached over to give the top of Zaria's head a rough tousle. "You're such a sweet girl," she said. "Finally found a fellow to drag over here, hmmm?"  
Sirius was oblivious to that comment; he was too busy gobbling down a burnt leg of lamb and some bread crusts. The tavern owner looked at him curiously. "Hey, I haven't seen this one in awhile," she said. "He used to hang around Hogsmeade all last spring, then disappeared for a bit. What were you up to, boy?"  
He raised his head.  
_If you must know, I actually left __Britain__ for several months since you last saw me, dear Rosmerta. First I spent my time on the sunny shores of the Tunisian coast. Next, after acquiring a suitable tan to make up for thirteen years of shady seclusion, I moved inland for a while. The time I spent in the Congo was brief, unfortunately, due to a terrible experience with some spider monkeys. After leaving the jungle, I moved to the Serengeti, where my hippogriff companion was almost shot by a trophy hunter. Saying farewell to __Africa__, I hopped over to __Sicily__ and then spent a few days in __Portugal__ before coming back to the __United Kingdom__. I spent a couple nights in Wales and had a group of disillusioned Muggles mistake me for an alien during one very strange rainy night. Afterwards, I came to England and attempted to give my godson some solid advice about dragon-fighting, got arrested, almost had my soul sucked out, settled down in Brighton, met up with a friend and his pup, left Brighton under emergency circumstances, came back up to Scotland, and had been living in a cave for the past several weeks. And how are you doing? _  
All this was expressed in under five seconds with one heavy-handed stare. Sirius blinked.  
Madame Rosmerta chuckled. "Well, you must have had a jolly good time wherever you went." She patted his head. "Welcome back." She got up, straightened her skirt and winked at Zaria. "I'll just leave you two alone you enjoy yourselves," she said slyly, before slipping back inside.  
The fact dawned on him then that Zaria was a female. Sirius contemplated this for a few moments and went back to eating ravenously. Zaria didn't take a bite at all and quietly observed Sirius slobbering over soup bones and licking up stray crumbs. When he was finished, he pushed the tin away and gave a little nod, expressing gratitude. Zaria seemed pleased with that; at least she didn't blink.  
Sirius moved back from the empty tin and thought about heading back to the cave. He made his way down the series of alleyways and streets that he had travelled before and was just at the beginning of the forest when he noticed that Zaria was still pursuing him. Sirius stopped. Zaria stopped. He took a step; she took a step. Oh, just peachy.  
Sirius really didn't know how to end this situation. He confronted her again and gestured with his head to go back. Zaria remained where she was. Well, as far as Sirius could tell she wasn't dangerous. He continued though the forest with the Lab in tow. At the foot of the mountain, however, Sirius realized that Zaria expected him to do _something_. But what?  
Sirius turned back around, wagging his tail. Doing it as best he could, Sirius used that subtle communication that animals use in place of spoken language. Translation: _Thank you very much for your help, my lady. I greatly appreciated that._  
Zaria took a couple steps forward. Sirius froze but reluctantly gave in. _Well, if she wants to go sniff my butt I might as well put up with it._  
She didn't. Instead, she came muzzle-to-muzzle with him and did something very strange. She quickly blew air between her two front teeth. They were slightly crooked, he realized, and made a faint, "Fft," sound, like the letter 'F.' That business finished, she left, leaving a full but puzzled Sirius behind.  
What was "Fft" supposed to mean? He hoped it wasn't some sort of female Labrador courting expression.  
"Cra - awwwwww..."  
Buckbeak poked his head out from behind a tree trunk.  
Sirius changed back into his human form, safe now that no one else was there. "How long have you been standing there?" he snapped, feeling somewhat flustered.  
Buckbeak just shook his great eagle head and clicked his tongue wryly. He headed up the mountain, making little sounds that sounded almost like a hippogriff's version of laughter.  
"Hey, hey nothing was going on." Sirius ran in front of him. "She only offered me a meal. That's all."  
"Craw?" Buckbeak blinked innocently.  
"Geez, stop it with all this blinking crap," Sirius threw his hands up in a frustrated gesture. "Why can't animals just come right out and say anything?"  
"Cra - awww..."  
"Never mind, you! Oh please!" Sirius flicked his wrist and trudged ahead. "Ridiculous," he muttered. "You're acting like a fool, ol' boy. I think you must have eaten too many squirrels today."  
Buckbeak didn't make another comment going back to the cave. He didn't have to.

Chapter 7

Lupin stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror, a little weary-eyed from the lack of sleep, the lower half of his face covered with white soap lather. His normally golden brown hair was coated with dark mahogany cream. His eyes - well, they were still the same hazel with flecks of blue-grey. Muggles had a curious invention called coloured contacts, but they were an item he couldn't afford. A pair of old reading glasses lay on the counter as a weak substitute.  
With one hand he tediously held his lathered chin; in the other was a sharpened knife. This was his penknife that he always kept in his briefcase. He had had it ever since he was a teenager; by now age has deemed it a sort of good-luck charm. He only hoped that its luck prevented any nasty slip-ups.  
What a time to go without a razor. The old one had rusted over and broken. He should have bought a new one, really, but he had to conserve his money. Most of it had gone into renting this room. Edinburgh tenement rates can be disastrous for the starving man's wallet.  
But he had shaved with his penknife plenty of times before. It was all about angles and positioning. Oh, and making sure his palms weren't sweaty. Sweaty palms could mean death by a slit throat.  
With a steady hand, he tilted the blade toward his chin. One long stroke along the throat and he banged the handle against the sink, sending bits of lather flying off. Not much time passed until he finished. Faint marks of pinkish razor burn cut alongside his left jaw, where the blade had bitten too close.  
He checked the time, and then turned on the faucet, sending out a flow of water. Lupin rinsed out the basin and slipped on a pair of latex gloves that lay on the counter before dunking his head under the tap. The cold water engulfed his head and dripped down the sides of his face; torrents of muddy brown liquid gushed down into the basin and down the drain. Lupin rinsed the dye out of his hair, turning the water darker and darker. When it was all finished, his arm jerked out toward the ragged towel to mop up his dripping tendrils.  
Throwing his head back, Lupin looked at himself again in the mirror, unsure about what to expect. This would have taken only a fraction of the time and effort if he had had his wand. Magic made everything so simple. Wave a wand and _poof!_ you could change your hair, eyes, skin tone, nationality, accent, anything. One spell to metamorphoses your looks and another to alter the timbre of your voice. The wand created some of the most impenetrable disguises.  
Yet there were disadvantages. In this sophisticated wizard world, any magical guise could be seen through eventually. Too many devices detected illusionary magic. So maybe going through all this trouble wasn't such a bad idea after all.  
He snatched up the small crystal bottle labeled _Confundus Cologne: l' eau de confusion_ from the mirror's sill It was something he had picked up in Knockturn Alley that week, and he nearly risked his life in the process. Luckily, the Ministry - and all respectable wizards in general - stayed away from Knockturn Alley at midnight. The cologne's fragrance was similar to a wet dog, but the effect was good enough. He pulled at the stopper, which came off with a _pop_, and dabbed a bit at his pulse points.  
Lupin slipped on the glasses and glanced at himself in the mirror. That immediate stubble was gone, leaving his skin smooth yet defining how rough his face was from the bitter winter air. His dripping hair was a rich chocolate, almost black, none of that light sandy brown with hints of grey.  
The change almost unnerved him. He stared at himself as if nearsighted, leaning close over the sink's edge. It was only hair colour after all, and temporary at that - he didn't want to have a permanent dye that would take months to outgrow. His hair was trimmed as well; a self-made job to say the least, but not terrible. But his eyes couldn't be pulled away. It was the very first time in his life that he felt that he looked his age and not older. Underneath all the dye and behind those horn-rimmed glasses was the real him. Whatever sense of "real" he could apply to himself anymore.  
He was reminded of those spy novels where the protagonist changed his identity to lurk on the other side. He could even compare himself to such a character if he wanted to. Slipping behind enemy lines, purloining and eavesdropping for the information he needed. And no one would know it was he. He could be like a shadow if he wanted to be, or a ghost lurking about with no name.  
But all spies knew what they were doing, what methods to use, what role to play, what lies to tell. And he- what could he say about himself! The poor being that tried to do the right thing. The drowning creature, confused and alone. He couldn't even pin down that badge of honour that all spies had hidden beneath their guise. Who knew if what he was doing was the right thing to do? Who could say that he was the noble hero trying to set things right, or only someone who was about to make the biggest mistake of his life?  
Hell, he couldn't even say who he was anymore! A man or beast, sinner or saint, wizard or werewolf? Who was Remus Lupin? _What_ was Remus Lupin?  
An instinctive reaction sent his hand to his throat to grasp the reassuring chain with his father's cross, but there was nothing for him to grasp. Mary had it; she possessed his silver cross, for he had given it to her! And now he was left with nothing to hold on to.  
The penknife clattering to the floor pulled him from his musings. Lupin snatched the fallen knife from the ground and tossed it across the room where his briefcase lay open on the sunken cot in the corner.  
"The name is Douglas Ridley," he murmured to himself. Was the Scottish accent thick enough? Accent needed work. Had to go deeper. From the back of the throat. "How are you keeping?" He stuck out his hand to himself and grinned. Winning smile. Over-brimming confidence.  
This was not the first time he had become a confidence man.  
His reflection stared back at him critically. The smile dropped. Lupin sighed and muttered all the Scottish slang he knew as he made his way to his sunken cot. Frankly, it wasn't much. He had caught some of "going to the messages" and "the back of nine" talk while listening in around at train stations and cafes in and around Edinburgh, but nothing worthwhile. Taking up his briefcase, he snapped it open and slipped his hand into a hidden clasp in the corner. The false siding slid away and Lupin removed a small pack of stiff parchment papers and Muggle plastic cards.  
John Gardiner. Luke Saunders. Stephen Wellington. Patrick O'Shea. Thomas Mariner. Douglas Ridley.  
He snatched up the last one and hid the rest. The identification cards had been purchased on the black market years ago after Voldemort's fall and when anti-lycanthrope sentiments were the highest; they drained the little bit of savings he possessed, yet none had let him down yet.  
He sat down on the cot, carefully gathering the pile of newspaper clippings that lay on the bed. "Muggle Girl Found Shot in Brighton." "Committee for Wizard-Muggle Relations Debate Fate of Werewolf Victim." "RMC's Predicament: How to Handle Family of Ex-Pup."  
He had searched the wizard libraries and newsstands at Diagon Alley, checking sources for this information. Discovering Mary was still alive brought inexpressible relief. His grief was halved at that moment. She lived. He had not killed her. And that silver bullet, rooted in love and faith, had cured her. At least, so he wanted to believe.  
A stray hand brushed across the old leather of his family Bible. Lupin let his fingers trace the gold lettering of the cover in a childlike way. The memory of that night on the beach, during that cold full moon in December... After so many years, during that moment, did He come at Lupin's prayer? Was it really magic that saved the little lamb?  
He couldn't answer that question, and it ate like a worm at his conscience. Had Lupin really stopped believing, or was it a lie he kept telling himself because his beliefs had made him lose control of his despair? Or, in turn, was he a nihilist at heart, who begged for divine intervention because he loved so deeply, that he became selfish and desperate?  
Either way, he had lost control of himself, of his life, and of everything he cherished. Was that how life was? Pure chaos? Or worse yet, did omnipotent strings, pulled by the whims from above, control him?  
Damn it, how simple it would be if he could live without the need to believe in anything at all! But then if he did, the wolf within would have truly dominated his soul...  
Lupin opened the cover and the pages turned themselves, flexing with the binding, blown as if by an invisible wind. The first pages, the family genealogy lasting for hundreds of years, spread out before him. Covered with fading ink and smudges, every member of his family ordered neatly before him. Lupin had never known much about his ancestors or even his living relatives. Occasionally he would think about why he had never met his grandparents, but then had always assumed they were dead. Judging by the record in his family book, his surname had changed twice during the book's record. Lupin was derived from Lupus: he had Latin roots somewhere. His own grandfather had been named after an ancient forbearer from Arcadia.  
Near the bottom, underneath his name, was another written in a humble hand. Mary Elizabeth Grisham. Bitten Oct 18. Redeemed Dec. 17.  
Redeemed. At the time back in the mountains of Scotland, it had been the only suitable phrase he could think of to write. "Redeemed" was certainly better than "died." She had never died, at least not in a physical sense.  
He closed his eyes briefly. If only he could be sure she would stay safe. Already, he knew she was in Registry hands. In addition, she was a dead girl walking, a magical miracle. Could they destroy a miracle, if only because miracles could not exist in such a modern, regulated world?  
Well, he wouldn't let them.  
The book was put away. Was he ready? Lupin had sent off the résumé a few days ago, and the interview was scheduled for today. Little wonder if the Department for Being Resources was impressed; he had sent the form by owl post under the Scottish pseudonym and fabricated enough lies to make him seem like an accomplished, if impoverished, Squib. Lupin stared at the ID in his hand, as if trying to merge his own identity with the one he had concocted.  
_This is your talent,_ he told himself carefully._ Don't be daft about it. _  
His "talent" was honed not by choice, but by necessity. He couldn't explode every time he felt angry, nor cry when he was grieved. He had learned at a very young age that to show any emotion would leave him vulnerable to other people. The masking of feelings, the quiet gesture of the hand, the humble raise of the eyes. Remus Lupin, most of all, was an actor.  
Many times when he was a child travelling England, he had been the target of children's games. Wizard youngsters playing at homes, in yards, in fields, while old Murphy begged their parents for kindness and shelter for the night. Those ignorant, cruel children viewed him as a monster because they were told he was by worrisome parents. Most ran from him on sight. Others didn't flee but tried to see how dangerous this "monster" could be. Or how "brave" they could be by provoking this "beast" and escaping his "wrath."  
Call him names, and see if he'll chase us! Or take a pebble - small one for easy throwing, large one if you can - and just as he goes down the bend in the road, clinging to that Squib's hand like a baby, heave it and see if you catch him in the back! Better yet, try and slug him in the head! Monsters are stupid anyway - look at that, he's crying! Now run, run off and brag to your friends about how you made the werewolf cry. They aren't as scary as mum and dad say!  
So he had learned, a child's defences against children's games. And, as he grew older, those defences had hardened while the games became more refined. Hold in the breath, draw back the hand, paste on that false grin - years and years and years it had taken to master! Change yourself. You are not you but someone else on the street! You're not a wizard or a werewolf or anyone at all! Lost a job? Grin and bear it. Those distrustful stares? Shrug them off. The muttered words? Ignore them.  
The mantra "Control, control, control" pounded in his head like a drummer's beat. He would not slip this time; he could not afford to. For now, it was time to begin the most difficult task he had ever had to face. And this would pull in all the skill he could muster. This was more than duping the passer-by on the street, or feigning an identity at the Triwizard Tournament, or wheedling a minister while sitting upon his very doorstep. This was fooling a government agency using nothing more than his wit, a little magic, and a lot of luck. No Polyjuice Potion this time. Only him.  
Lupin locked his eyes into his mirror image. The corner of his mouth rose in a subtle half grin. Use focus, attitude, and style. This wasn't impossible.  
Yes, not impossible. That should be his mantra as well. Not impossible. He could do this. Acting was all about skill and self-assurance. Without one or the other, he would fail. The grin widened ever so slightly. Lupin adjusted his glasses, tucked a pair of clean robes within his jacket, and left the rented room.

The Edinburgh branch of the United Kingdom's Ministry of Magic had a highly unusual side entrance. All offices must had to have at least one exit that led directly into the Muggle world, for reasons of safety and procedure, and when Edinburgh officials had decided to revamp their Muggle passageway, they had asked around about what kind of store would fit the most into the mundane, magic-less scheme of things. Spells prevented Muggles from noticing it, but still, the Scot politicians wanted to keep things authentic. Ultimately, they thought of one thing: the almighty Galleon. Little tours of the Ministry offices in London were already being conducted, so why not up here as well? No one could let those Londoners milk the cash cow by themselves.  
But the poor Edinburgh officials had felt the need to impress the tourists with their superiority in Muggle knowledge. "We need to make this not only the Scottish experience, but the _Muggle_ experience," entrepreneurs had muttered to themselves. With these intentions, they had sent an inquiry to the man who would know the most about Muggle culture: the Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office in London, Arthur Weasley.  
And that was how _Waldo's Plugs and Outlets_ was born.  
Lupin stared up at the neon storefront sign, which was outlined with blinking lights. Underneath in smaller writing were the words, "Edinburgh's premiere outlet store!" He blinked a couple times, - the lights were a bit dazzling - shrugged somewhat to himself, and stepped in.  
The first thing he came in contact with was a curtain made up entirely of orange extension cords. Lupin pushed them out of the way, and surveyed his surroundings. Lengthy cords, wires, and cables coiled around every lighting fixture, shelf, table and chair in the room. Their electrical plugs dangled from the ceiling, their cables crisscrossing over the luminescent lights. Wooden, cork and steel stoppers were arranged on the walls in intricate patterns. Paintings of the most inane things plastered the walls. A beeper, a cell phone, and a microwave were displayed in oil paints, their buttons still blinking. Lupin backed up by a gigantic hanging of a VCR, whose digital clock flashed 12:00 repetitively.  
Where was the interview being held? He had been told it was at the Department of Being Resources, but this place didn't resemble anything close to a government office. Nearby was a set of glass doors with the words, "Muggle Gift Shop" painted in Gothic lettering.  
Gift shop? At the Ministry?  
He entered, curious.  
What he didn't realize was that a Muggle gift shop equalled a wholesale warehouse. Immeasurable shelves towered above him like skyscrapers. Toasters, blenders, computers, roller skates, can openers, and hundreds of other Muggle items lined the walls. Large tacky sales signs accompanied each, with the prices flashing. "LOW, LOW, LOW!" "SALE!" "ROLLING BACK THE PRICES!"  
One glittering pink rack held a dozen neatly-trimmed brooms. "Own a broom that doesn't fly!" the display touted, as a misty illusionary witch swept with one. A tourist couple was taking a picture next to it, with the wife holding up the miraculously mundane broom.  
Next to the cleaning isle was the "Muggle Electronics section." A strange hulking contraption was there - a computer, Lupin remembered. Claire had had one back at the Safehouse. The casual reminder stabbed at his heart and he turned away.  
Other "electronics" were displayed. Wide-screen televisions with surround sound ("There are no people inside - really!"). Self-programming microwaves ("Cooking without fire - it's like magic!"). Graphing calculators ("The 'Electronic' Abacus!").  
_What do wizards actually do with all of these?_ Lupin wondered. Buy them for what reason? As a collector's item? Display a coffeemaker over the mantle place? Use a blender for a dining room centrepiece? Surely, wizards would prefer using magic compared to anything else; these items were merely curiosity's wonders.  
Near the back of the store he arrived at a children's display. As Lupin clearly saw, however, no Muggle toys were being shown there. Instead, the aisle was swathed with glittering blue and gold chequered ribbons. The blue-gold pattern extended along the floor and sheathed the shelves with a tacky, luminescent sparkle. The glitz was even worse than the flashing neon _Waldo's Plugs and Outlets_ sign. Lupin shaded his eyes with one hand and wondered what kind of promotion was being presented here.  
Neat packaged items stacked the shelves. Lupin picked one up and saw that it was an action figurine. Inside, a little spectacled boy with tousled sandy blond hair stood, dressed in an athletic uniform with a ball under one arm. Occasionally, the figure moved, tossing the ball from one hand to another, then waving a miniscule arm at Lupin. On the box was the label "Rugby-Playing Larry - collect all Larry Porter(tm) action figures and watch them play a real Muggle Rugby(tm) game!"  
Another packaged box. Bus Station Larry(tm). This child looked somewhat annoyed, pacing the small square back and forth while checking his watch. Occasionally his high, tiny voice would mutter something like, "By Merlin's beard, the bus is late!" and "Galloping Goblins, how much longer will this take!" Also included in the Larry Porter(tm) Muggle Transportation Series were a working model of the infamous London Cab(tm) that Larry rode in and a scaled figure of a British Airways 747 Commercial Jet(tm) (working turbines not included).  
Other merchandise items lined the shelves as well. Larry Porter(tm) board games, trading cards, broom sets, wood-carvings, stickers, toothpaste, nightlights, sunscreen, and much, much more packed the walls, with that same logo slapped onto each product. There was even a separate display of Chocolate Frogs with Larry Porter's(tm) face on it, and his own brand of flavoured butterbeer.  
Another, humbler display held the books, titled _The Adventures of Larry Porter and the Muggles_ by N.K. Stouffer. Lupin picked one up and read the back cover.

_Larry Porter lives the most wretched life thought possible for a child in the wizard world. Only known as "The Squib" in the prestigious Crockworth Pureblood family, Larry is treated miserably by his terrible aunt, uncle, and their spoiled son Barnaby. However, one day, Larry's world turns upside-down when he receives a mysterious letter though the Owl Post: a message that says that he isn't a Crockworth Squib at all, but a Muggle - not just any Muggle, but the son of the recently deceased Nicholas Knickerbocker, one of the most influential intermediaries between the wizard and Muggle world. And his life is now in danger..._  
_Abandoning everything he has ever known, Larry must flee into the dangerous and strange Muggle world, where robes are not worn, people believe dragons and unicorns are not real, and "technology" replaces magic. There, Larry befriends the sassy and mischievous Felicity Rabblerouser and the intelligent Donald Knowitall. But can this trio stand up to the unknown forces after Larry?_

Ah, Lupin had heard of this book before. It was a bestseller in the wizard world. Several rumours said that it was inspired by Harry Potter's life, but the author denied resolutely having her creativity guided by anything else other than her own mind. Putting the book back on the shelf, Lupin vaguely wondered if Harry himself had read this.

Whether the books had any quality to them he didn't know, but the merchandise was certainly overrated. Commercialization tended to degrade literature. He pondered whether the author had realised this when she sold the rights or had simply been trying to cash in like everyone else in this mercantile world.  
By the children's section, Lupin spotted a lone cashier. Perhaps he knew where the Department of Being Resources was. The counter was plastered entirely with outlet covers: some the standard rectangular ones, others in strange shapes and sizes. One young, pimply youth flicked a light switch on and off, totally absorbed by a light bulb hanging from the ceiling. He jumped upon seeing Lupin approach.  
"Oh, are you here for the tour?"  
"Not particularly. I'm actually here for the job interview. Can you direct me to the Department of Being Resources?"  
"Job inter-" The light bulb went off above his head. "Ah, I got you. The passageway's right over there." He pointed to two sets of lift doors. "It was in maintenance earlier today, so could be a little slow."  
"Either one?"  
"Oh, take the employee one on the left. The other's part of the tour. Ask for the department and it'll get you there."  
"Thank you." Lupin went to the lift on his left and pressed the button. The doors opened to nothing. An empty elevator shaft. Lupin double-checked. His foot kicked up a minor plug on the floor and it tumbled down into the abyss.  
He looked to his left, where a tour guide was herding the group of wizards into an existing lift compartment beside him. The lift itself was completely made out of different coloured panes of glass; the passengers treaded carefully so as to not slip along the shiny surface. Lupin stuck his head out past the threshold and saw the shaft was built for a double set of elevators, only there wasn't a compartment built for his side.  
"This is called a lift, also known as an elevator," the guide said. "Lifts were invented in the mid-1840s by an American named James Otis. They are what Muggles use to travel from floor to floor of office buildings, skyscrapers, and other extremely tall buildings. If you look through the ceiling above you, you shall see a system of wheels and ropes. This is called the pulley system, which controls the elevator's movement." He soon packed the entire group in the small elevator and pressed a red button on the sideboard.  
A short Japanese man with a camera around his neck raised his hand. "Is true that elevator go up and down?"  
"Yes. Wizard improvements enable these to move sideways, byways, backwards, frontwards, diagonally, and inside-out as well, but Muggles apparently have trouble defying gravity. Moving on." The doors slid shut.  
Lupin peered into his own empty shaft to see the elevator lower down smoothly. The guide's voice could still be heard muffled through the coloured panes. "If you turn to page 476 of your guidebook, there is an illustration of the pulley system..."  
"You sure?" Lupin asked the store clerk.  
"Positive."  
Lupin held his breath and stepped out. He stood, suspended for a few moments in blank air. Daring himself to look down, Lupin gave a blank stare at the distant bottom of the shaft. Immediately, he plummeted toward the bottom.  
Down and down and down he fell, the wind racing past him, the speed catching his breath in his throat, the skeleton beams of the walls blurring by, the concrete floor looming in closer and closer and closer-  
A startled shout escaped him before logic kicked in. "Department of Being Resources! Department of Being Resources!"  
And still he continued to tumble. He could see the layer of dust upon the hard ground and the cobweb traces in the corner magnifying with the shortening distance; he closed his eyes so he wouldn't witness his skull crashing into the concrete-  
A loud _ding_ rang out in the air.  
He stopped.  
Lupin could feel his breath coming in and out of his overworked lungs as his pulse started to slow its rapid beat. Hesitantly, he opened one eye to discover his nose bare centimetres from the floor. In fact, his whole body hovered spread-eagle above the shaft bottom.  
The tour guide's voice came from above him. "Now we shall go downstairs and visit a model of the Muggle underground-"  
The glass lift descended alongside him. There was a bright flash of light through the pebbled surface as the Japanese man snapped a picture - Lupin twitched.  
"-which is a system of below ground railways that-"  
The guide's voice was cut off when the lift and its passengers disappeared through the floor.  
Golden sparkles emitted from the cold concrete. They drifted around him and fluidly lifted him into the air. The process was slow, like the guard had said, and it took Lupin a full ten minutes to arrive at the proper floor. During this time, he managed to pull his robe over his head and smooth out the wrinkles. He wiped the sweat from his brow and got a whiff of wet dog; his perspiration increased the Confundus Cologne's potency.  
He stopped in front of a heavy-set oaken door made of roughly hewn planks and riveted with iron bolts. In the centre of this forbidding door was a frosted square of glass with the flowing script, "Department of Being Resources." The door had no handle.  
"Name please?" A disembodied voice inquired.  
"Douglas Ridley. I'm here for a job in-"  
The door opened with an ominous creak. "Come in."  
Lupin stepped through the portal, which slammed loudly behind him. He entered a simply furnished office waiting room. On a table there was a small pile of résumés, with a sign above it saying, "Take One Please."  
He stared at the pile curiously. He had already sent one in before; why would they ask for another? Well, he wasn't going to complicate matters any...  
Lupin picked up a blank résumé the colour of moulted leaves and a quill from the cracked inkpot before sitting down in one of the navy blue waiting room chairs. Putting the quill tip to the paper, he wrote "Douglas Ridley" on the line that said _Name_.  
Instantly, the words dissolved on the sheet and new script in dark lettering appeared.  
**Liar.**  
Lupin nearly dropped his quill. He hastily scratched out the word, and then tried writing down his alias again. Yet as soon as his quill lifted itself from the paper, an invisible hand erased the name.  
A new reply was written. **Don't even try it, laddie.**  
For a few moments, Lupin stared at response_. What do you mean?_ he wrote innocently. _I am only trying to fill -_ he paused, wondering whether to say address the résumé as "you" or not - _out the information as required_, he finished.  
His ink script was disappeared, replaced by another's.  
**Oh yeah, that's what they all say,** the résumé answered. **It always starts with the names. **  
Lupin wrote,_What is wrong with mine, may I ask?_  
**You might have called yourself Hengist of Woodcroft for all I care, **the résumé snapped. **I've got some grievances to get off me chest about folks like you.**  
_I'm not trying to be rude. I was only_  
**Cut the crap; I've got some ink to spill.**  
Lupin lifted up his quill, taken back by the document's disrespect.  
It began again in a complaining drawl.** First, it's the names. Then take a few years off the birth date - younger is always better. And hey, before you know it, laddie, applicants are lying about how many toes they have or what they ate for breakfast yesterday. Not to mention their accomplishments! "Pureblood family going back fifty-six generations." "Head Boy of '78 at Hogwarts." "Former Intern at the Department of Mysteries." HA!**  
An ink splotch marked the end of the exclamation point. _How disgruntled can one get from lying on a table all day?_ Lupin wondered.  
_I apologise for your poor experience with previous applicants,_ he wrote sincerely. _I would be more than willing to write down honest answers if you require it of me._  
**Of course I require it, stupid. I'm here to sniff out those who lie on their applications! Ugh...** The résumé added in smaller letters, as if muttering to itself, **The fools I have to deal with...**  
_For a piece of paper, you have quite an attitude problem,_ he answered shortly.  
**What, you going to be fresh now?** the résumé snapped, the words zipping across the paper. **Fine, be that way. I'll just fill out meself for you.**  
Across the top, it wrote "Remus Jacob Lupin" in flourishing handwriting and proceeded to write down everything else about his true self.  
Age: 36  
Birth date: August 7th  
Last occupation: Hogwarts Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor  
Reason for dismissal: **WEREWOLF**  
Immediately, Lupin tore the parchment in two. The pieces fluttered to the floor. On the smaller half, the résumé had the last word. **And you wrote that _I_ had an attitude problem...** Then, the print faded away, leaving a blank sheet.  
_How am I supposed to get into this place if I can't even get past the damned résumés? _Lupin chided himself bitterly. Maybe this wasn't the way to go. Yet what other choice did he have? Forge a copy? He picked up the fallen pieces and folded them into his pocket.  
Suddenly, the Director's office door opened. A loud voice called out, "NEXT!"  
Lupin stood in the middle of the waiting room, wondering if he should enter without filling out any of the papers. Wasn't there supposed to be another applicant in the office before him? If so, where had that person gone? The forbidding door was waiting. _Focus,_ Lupin instructed himself. _Attitude. Style._ He sniffed at his wrist; the odour of wet dog made him feel quite nauseated, if not more confident. Carefully, he entered the Director's office.  
The entire office was painted a fiery orange so bright it hurt his eyes. A monstrosity of a desk towered in front of him, its legs ending in heavy griffin claws. Behind that was the back of a tall chair made of tooled leather and riveted with steel. On the desktop was a small, almost insignificant, nameplate with the title, _Mr. Felix C. Burtman, Director of Being Resources_.  
The chair turned whirled around. "Welcome to the Ministry of Magic's Edinburgh offices." The Director who greeted him was a thin, angular man dressed in a coal black suit, with a pencil moustache and slicked-back raven hair. Altogether he seemed like a respectable, self-assured wizard. That is, if one chose to ignore the pointed furry ears spouting from his head and the long, whip-like tail that extended from behind him.  
Mr. Burtman rose and extended a hand across the desk to Lupin, his thin lips forming a broad smile. Lupin received it without a hitch, trying not to notice how Mr. Burtman's tail flicked out from behind the desk. He managed to make eye contact as well, despite the unsettling fact that the Director had diagonal slits for pupils.  
"The name's Douglas Ridley," he replied cordially, testing out his Scottish accent. "How are you keeping?"  
"Rather fine, thank you. And how are you?"  
"Doing well. I apologise for not completing a résumé," he added, "but it was quite disagreeable with me."  
He expected the interview to stop right there, but Mr. Burtman only gave a low, carefree chuckle. "I apologise for not replacing them. All the applicants have been telling me that." He gave a casual shrug. "The new stock is more meticulous than I would prefer. As they say, 'One bad tree spoils the ream.' " He laughed again, then sat down. "Not that I mind much. Extra precautions were never my thing; I have the one you sent in right here." He waved a hand to Lupin's fabricated résumé on his desk. "Please, take a seat."  
Was that the cologne working? Must be. Lupin checked around to see a smaller chair identical to the Director's planted behind him. He didn't remember seeing that before. Nevertheless, Lupin settled himself down comfortably.  
"Please," Mr. Burtman said in a purring voice. "Tell me about yourself."  
"There's not much to say." Lupin cleared his throat. Was his accent sounding right? Yes, he supposed it was. "I worked a few years back as a farm hand in the countryside, but quit after a while for opportunity's sake. I tried looking for city work, but city's tough. They're asking for education." He squirmed slightly as if to exhibit nervousness. "The schooling's not in me." He cleared his throat again. Damn, this accent was bothering him. Lupin checked in a worried glance and asked, "The workload isn't too intellectual-like, is it?"  
Mr. Burtman had his hands folded on the table. He glanced at his job application. "Are you a Squib, Mr. Ridley?"  
Lupin bowed his head down quickly. "I thought the position was aimed for a man like me," he muttered.  
"Of course it is," Mr. Burtman said apologetically. He chuckled. "I didn't mean to startle you or anything." The Director pointed with a slender finger towards the Employment Policy framed on the flame-coloured wall. "We never turn anyone away who's qualified for the job."  
_Ah, the Ministry is an equal-opportunity employer!_ Lupin thought dryly. He had been fired from enough jobs in the past, which had boasted of the same standards; law could not supersede prejudice.  
He gave a small, anxious smile. "I have to confess that my last employer and I weren't the best of friends," he added. "But, but I'll work me hardest if that's what you want, Mr. Burtman. If there's the sweeping to do done, or the cleaning, or the garbage, anything-"  
"Be still yourself, Mr. Ridley." Mr. Burtman scratched behind a furry ear with a bemused expression on his face. The ear twitched. "May you tell me, where do you see yourself five years from now?"  
A sigh escaped him. "Deep question, that one." His adjusted the glasses. "Can't say exactly, Mr. Burtman. The world's a tumultuous place, and all I hope is that I get the quid to pack myself into a good home. I -I live in a tenement in the city, and I... I really want to be owning a house in a couple years. Not a big one, mind you, but a place with gas heating would be nice."  
That smooth grin uncurled once more across his face. "Good goals you have there," Mr. Burtman reassured. "We at the Ministry look for determination in potential employees. Diligence as well."  
"Oh yes, I'll be working," Lupin rushed in eagerly. That excitable light flared up in his eye again. "Days, nights, weekends, whenever the shift is."  
"Actually, Mr. Ridley, the shift we're trying to fill is the 6 PM to 5 AM shift. Not many takers for that." Mr. Burtman flexed his bony fingers and picked up his application. "From this job application, I see that you're quite qualified." Mr. Burtman's eyes went over the paper again. "Very qualified indeed." He laid the paper back on the desk, smoothing it out with those elegant hands. "Would you please push your chair back, Mr. Ridley?"  
Lupin stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I-I-I didn't do anything wrong, did I?" he asked.  
"I'm only conducting the basic background check." Mr. Burtman opened a drawer and took out his wand and several sticky electrode pads. "Just please let me put these on."  
Background check? What did those electrodes monitor? Heart rate? Breathing? Lupin recalled Muggle using those electrodes and a small graphing machine that could detect whether a man was lying or not. Was this the magical equivalent?  
He sat stock-still as Mr. Burtman came around the desk and fastened those sticky, round pads on his temples, on the pulse points of his neck and on the inside of his wrists. The Director took the dangling wires from these electrodes in one hand and knotted them together. Lupin then noticed that little leather straps with brass buckles were nailed onto the armrests of the chair he was sitting. Mr. Burtman strapped the leather fastenings around his wrists, tying them to the arms of the chair.  
"What's going on with all this?" Lupin casually questioned, hiding his discomfort.  
"We're just preparing you for my Duchess," Mr. Burtman said cheerfully. "Don't worry, it shouldn't hurt at all."  
_Shouldn't_ hurt? Lupin coughed out of nervousness then gritted his teeth together chidingly. _Control, Remus, control_. Yet a small panicking outcry was already forming in his mind. This was unexpected. Why, the last time he had had a job interview something like this hadn't been required. He had lied on applications before and on résumés. Nothing like this had ever occurred. Yet this was a government job, for heaven's sake. One doesn't pluck any chap off the street for a government job.  
Mr. Burtman went behind his desk and lifted up a small cage that Lupin hadn't noticed before. His tail swished out behind him, and Lupin shifted in his seat to avoid its touch. When the Director turned around again, Lupin saw that he had a frosty, translucent creature about the size of a housecat on a brass leash. The animal (if Lupin could call it that) wagged its long trunk about excitedly as it floated along the ground.  
"This is a spirit niffler," Mr. Burtman explained reassuringly. "Similar to those common nifflers you've seen around. Yet this little darling was bred especially for sniffing out corruption in our applicants instead of gold. Her nose is very particular, magically designed to home in on treachery."  
"Kind of like those Muggle lie detector tests, hmm?" Lupin gave a small chuckle. He felt himself shudder inside. How many layers of wretchedness would this niffler find within him? Would her diaphanous trunk catch the scent of a child's blood?  
"Even more so." Mr. Burtman scratched underneath the niffler's ghostly chin and cooed softly. "Yes, my little Duchess, we have another one for you today." He took those wires and fastened them around specially marked spots on the niffler's collar.  
"Ready, my dear?" Mr. Burtman plunked the vaporous creature upon Lupin's knees. It was like a bundle of Arctic mist being dropped into his lap. Lupin shivered involuntarily.  
"Now, this test is quite simple," Mr. Burtman explained. "Look into Duchess's eyes."  
"That's all?" Lupin said.  
"That's all, Mr. Ridley."  
Lupin peered into the niffler's large, unblinking orbs. They were quite intriguing. Glowing shades of blue and purple swirled within, intensifying with the bright office lights. He found himself relaxing under her hypnotic gaze. A brisk chill swept through his body. Looking at those eyes, his mind became calm. _They're like jewels,_ he thought in awe._ Why is a creature like this shut up in a cage underground...?_  
The niffler sniffed about inquisitively. Her wispy truck brushed slowly along his chest in a circular motion, the sensitive tip quivering. The sensation was almost ticklish.  
His face lost all expression as he continued to stare, eyes half-lidded. _What a beautiful animal,_ Lupin continued languidly._ Enchanting beast, with such breathtaking eyes. No wonder, for eyes are the windows to the soul. Probably that's all she is- a little wisp sent to investigate the souls of others. How is mine, little Duchess? _he questioned silently. _Can you tell me?_  
Her luminescent eyes grew rounder, the ever-changing colours becoming even more brilliant. Was she giving her answer? Lupin leaned forward slightly, transfixed. Azure changed to indigo changed to violet changed to sapphire changed to amethyst changed to plum changed to-  
A sharp stab of frigid air impaled his chest. He cried out at the intensity, jaw dropping, eyes widening. Cold! His legs kicked out. His arms jerked in reaction, struggling against his bonds. The niffler had its trunk plunged clear through him and began pumping rhythmically.  
Mr. Burtman sat across from him, watching kindly as Lupin flailed in his seat. "Don't worry, Mr. Ridley," he chirped. "You'll only feel a brisk chill."  
An icicle seemed to have been thrust into Lupin's heart - reaching in, fanning out, locking the blood in his veins, coating over his insides, halting the throb of his heart - cold - cold - cold!  
He couldn't feel the chair beneath him anymore - or anything at all. Nothing except that ice probe digging through flesh and bone and marrow, seeping through the levels of his very being, snatching hold of something within and _pulling_-  
Lupin must have blacked out for a minute or so, for the next thing he knew, Mr. Burtman was standing over him, undoing the electrodes and freeing his arms. "It's all over now," he said. "Simple, isn't it?"  
He muttered something in reply and lifted his eyes toward the spirit niffler, who was bouncing up and down on the Director's desk. She was squealing softly to herself, holding a small, glowing sphere with her trunk.  
"Wah's... wah's that...?" he slurred. He put a hand over his chest where the niffler's trunk had gone through. He wasn't injured, but part of him felt... missing.  
"This is the sample of what we need." Mr. Burtman daintily picked up the spirit niffler's find and took out a round magnifying glass from a desk drawer. He examined the ball of light as if appraising a valuable gem, his yellow, feline eye magnified ten times through the glass. His pointed ears perked up with interest.  
"Ah... very good," he murmured to himself. "The finest quality I see."  
Mr. Burtman spent a quarter of an hour slowly turning the object, making little "tsk, tsk, tsk" sounds under his breath. Lupin watched in a daze as his mind tried to comprehend exactly what had happened. Suddenly, Mr. Burtman tossed the light into a red velvet bag and tucked the bag into his suit jacket.  
"You passed," he announced in a grand voice.  
Passed? Passed what? "Oh... Oh good..." Lupin straightened up in his seat. The glasses he wore sat askew on his face, but he didn't re-adjust them. He blinked. "What... happened?" His voice regained its natural English tones, yet he was oblivious to his slipping cover.  
The Director, however, seemed not notice. "The background check, Mr. Ridley."  
"Oh." Lupin adjusted the glasses. "And what did it say?"  
"I'm sorry but the results are confidential." The Director smiled amiably and adjusted the lapels of his jacket. "Would you like to go over the terms of agreement?"  
"Terms of agreement?" Lupin repeated distractedly. He stared at Mr. Burtman's jacket where the velvet bag was.  
Mr. Burtman seemed to read his mind. He placed his hand on Lupin's shoulder. "Come now, you're not going to back away from the interview at this point?"  
"Why should I?" Lupin swallowed hard. "'Twas just a bit of funny business you were pulling there," he said, fixing his accent. "I've not seen anything other than blood and guts coming out of meself before." All thoughts of trickery disappeared from his mind.  
Mr. Burtman, however, didn't take note of that. "Don't worry about a thing," he added pleasantly. "I do these sorts of checks all the time. You're in the hands of an expert."  
Lupin nodded bluntly. _Control, Remus, control._ He blinked twice, and then cleared his throat loudly. "I... I'd like to see those terms of agreement then," he said. _This is for Mary,_ he told himself. _I do this for her sake._  
"All right then." Mr. Burtman when back to his desk and whipped out a lengthy scroll, a cherry-coloured inkpot and a phoenix quill. "The hours are from 6PM to 5AM like I mentioned before," he said in a business-like tone. "The pay is 20 Sickles a week. This job does not include health coverage, unfortunately, but it does have a good retirement plan. Just sign here," he ended quickly.  
Lupin stared at the minute print covering the paper. "What else does it say?" he asked cautiously.  
Mr. Burtman flicked a wrist indifferently. "Oh, just to abide by the Ministry rules and all that. Nothing much, just the red tape."  
"If I could take a minute to read this-"  
The Director chuckled lightly. "I'll give you a copy to take home yourself. Believe me, it's just filler." His index finger pointed eagerly to the bottom line. "Sign at the 'X'."  
The two men met stares. "I've got only one question then, if you'll not mind," Lupin said slowly.  
The Director folded his hands together. "And what may that be?"  
Lupin shifted his stare back to the contract. "I was only wondering... how did you... well... with your, um-"  
"My unusual attributes?" Mr. Burtman said pointedly. His whole face seemed to darken, as his ears pressed back against his head.  
"Oh, I apologise, sir, I didn't mean to be impolite-"  
"Never mind, I get that all the time." The storm clouds rolled away from his brow and the smile reappeared. Lupin began to think that grin was automatic. "It was a horrible transfiguration accident during my schoolboy years. I attempted to transform myself into a cat with mixed results. Very tragic." He gestured toward the scroll again. "Sign please?"  
Should he sign? A feeling of foreboding manifested itself in his mind. Why hadn't that soul niffler uprooted his duplicity? Lupin took the quill in his hand and stared at the dashed line. Was it luck, magic, or something else that had prevented him from getting caught?  
His eyes scanned the line above it. 'I hereby declare knowledge of the rules of the Edinburgh branch of the United Kingdom Ministry of Magic and therefore hold myself responsible for any rules broken and crimes committed.'  
Then, without another moment of delay, he put the quill to parchment and signed his alias with a swift flourish. The scroll immediately rolled itself up and into Mr. Burtman's hands. The Director's grin extended from ear-to-ear as he sealed the scroll shut with a blood-red wax seal.  
"Welcome aboard, Mr. Ridley," he said proudly. "We'll be certainly be glad to have you." Mr. Burtman snapped his fingers and a folded set of light blue robes appeared on the desk, topped with a painter's cap of the same colour. "You'll start tomorrow night. There'll be one other working the same shift; I'll have her show you around."  
Lupin could only murmur, "Thank you." He then remembered his character and lightened up considerably. "I'm so grateful for all this, sir!" he exclaimed, grabbing the Director's hand and pumping it effusively. "You won't regret hiring me, Mr. Burtman. I swear to work me hardest!"  
"I'm sure I won't. You were born for this job." Mr. Burtman gave a low chuckle, one that seemed much more darker than his previous ones. He led Lupin out of his office and handed him a clean copy of the job contract. "Take this to look over later; if you have any troubles, don't hesitate in sending an owl. Enjoy the rest of your day, Mr. Ridley."  
The office door shut behind him. Lupin slumped against the wall and put a hand to his temple. It was almost unbelievable; he had actually got away with it. Lupin took a glance at the cap he had been given, part of his new uniform. The title was embroidered in white block lettering on the front. Ministry of Magic: Custodial Services.  
Rubbing his chest slowly, he wondered if he had got away with anything at all. Stuffing the uniform within his robes, Lupin exited the room. The handle-less door swung open of its own accord as he entered the empty elevator shaft.  
_It was too easy,_ he suddenly thought. _That whole interview was damn simple and far too quick. But why?_  
Soon he arrived outside and walked down the cold, snowy streets as these worries grew. Perhaps the Ministry already caught him. Perhaps the interview had been made to humour this poor wolf. Perhaps the Hit Wizards were walking half a street behind him, darting between the Muggle pedestrians. Lupin gave a glance backwards. Perhaps they would follow him back to the tenement and arrest him there. Perhaps they would come at night to feed their predatory thrill. Perhaps they were just around the corner, watching, waiting...  
His eyes scanned the streets around him. Hurrying cars, bustling people. Where were they? God, the interview had been so simple!  
Lupin quickly bowed his head and hurried his pace. His hand went to his chest, which still felt the spirit niffler's chilling touch. _Stop fooling yourself, Remus._ Perhaps it hadn't been simple after all.  
His initial uncertainty grew into sarcasm. _Oh, wonderful, Remus, wonderful job there! Award-winning performance, and, you sly wolf, you'll have to prepare yourself for more in the weeks to come. Really, don't be so grim - you actually have a job! And working the Ministry, of in all places! Hey, at least now, after all these years, you'll finally get the opportunity to steal office supplies! When there are Hit Wizards out to get you, there has to be at least _some_ consolation bonus._  
He took the cap out and plunked it over his head; Muggle pedestrians would never notice the magical stitching anyhow. _I've practically sold my soul to become a janitor,_ he thought cynically. _So if the hat fits..._  
The Ministry had certainly hired their most interesting employee yet.

End of Part 2.


	3. Thought vs. Emotion

**Summary:** In Part Three, Claire struggles with her memories, Sirius gets nostalgic (and a bit paranoid), and Lupin starts his new job as a janitor for the Edinburgh branch of the Ministry of Magic...  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author notes:** The "graveyard workers" at the Ministry speak Scots, also known as Scottish brogue. Just in case any readers were wondering why in the world I wrote their voices like that.

And, as always, thank you to Ilana G. for re-editing this fic! -

Revised: May 2005

WOLF BY EARS

Part Three: Thought vs. Emotion

By D.M.P.

Thoughts are the shadows of our feelings – always darker, emptier, and simpler than they are.

Friedrich Nietzsche

Chapter 8

Boomslang.  
Leeches.  
Knotgrass.  
The lamps from the streets were brighter than the waning moon and the sounds of midnight traffic – there always seemed to be traffic going by, even in the old quarter – zoomed and rumbled and honked and screeched. Her location did not matter – London or Nice; to Claire, the murmur of a city never waned.  
She was awake, staring at the Italian relief on the ceiling. In wealthy, crumbling, ancient houses such as this one, a look above would reveal a vast spread of flowing plaster-and-paint arches, columns, lattice, vines and flowers all twisting and blooming and growing into one another. With the faint streetlight streaming upon these symmetrical layouts, these patterns became more defined and shaped with shadow. She blinked and sighed. One can learn to appreciate the beauty of ceiling sculpture when one is unable to turn one's back away from it.  
The silhouette of the brace stood out against her leg like a cage. Her limb was propped up on a pillow to cushion it. The sheets were silk, the comforter down, and the pillows stuffed with feathers. But the silk was slippery and the comforter too thin. Her brace sunk into the flimsy fluff stuffed beneath it; she feared that the metal would tear at the brocade.  
Claire longed her worn set of linen sheets and the six-year old heated blanket she used back in London. Her brother had moved all of her belongings to his home in Nice, but had specifically thrown out all of the "shabby" materials she used and offered her more quality ones.  
"You don't have to reduce yourself to squalor just because you provide for squalor," he had huffed, while unpacking her boxes (a service she had never asked him to do). "I provided a decent amount of money for you. Five thousand Galleons annually should provide more than enough for a proper lifestyle."  
She had lived a proper lifestyle, proper in that it was of her own choosing. If only Bernard really knew where the clan's money went….  
Her discomfort grew. There was a heavy foam, shaped pillow that was tucked beneath her for her back brace. Now it was out of place, and the hard plastic was digging into her skin. She couldn't shift her position by herself. Claire's eye went to the bell cord by the bed stand hanging like a limp snake from the ceiling. It was near one AM; she wouldn't think of waking Fifi up at this hour, although Bernard constantly reassured her that Fifi could be her willing slave. Claire felt guilty, however, every time she requested the woman's aid. Fifi Dubois, she knew, was a very capable woman, but a very slow one. She didn't like giving orders to a simpleton.  
Clenching her teeth, Claire closed her eyes. At least she could spend this time to think by herself. She could wait until morning.  
Boomslang. Leeches. Knotgrass. What else?  
In the hidden crevices of her mind, the pieces came to her, fragmented like shards of broken china being swept together. She could make out clumps and splotches: the closed shades upon the windows, the bright lights in the kitchen, the loud humming of the overhead fan on the stove, the pungent smell of boiled cabbage. Carefully, gently, each piece falling one by one, completing the memory…

_The pot bubbled and frothed on the stove; he had made it work this time, thankfully. He was chopping a spindly, golden mess, carefully drawing out the seeds. The girl was kneeling on one of the kitchen tables, examining an insect with large, gossamer wings. She held it up to see the light filter through its gauzy limbs. _

_"Isn't that pretty, Madame?" _

_"Oui." _  
_Claire had her arms folded on the tabletop. She lifted a hand and poked one of the dead bugs with her finger. Its wings were folded along its dried, shrunken body. _  
_"Zey are like little insect mummies," she observed. _  
_"I certainly like these better than other bugs. All the normal ones I know are ugly and gross." She spread the tiny creature across her small palm. "I wouldn't ever touch normal bugs, even if they were dead." She gently stroked the fly. "Does magic make everything prettier?" _  
_"I suppose so." _  
_"Can I put these in, Remmy?" she asked hopefully. _  
_His hands were measuring out a shimmering powder into the pot. Claire's eyes followed those hands as they moved up and down, up and down. The bicorn powder was like fairy dust, vanishing into the bubbling pot. _  
_"You may when I tell you so," he answered. _  
_She stuck her hand inside to get a handful. The jar suddenly tipped and Claire reached over to grab the container before it could fall. _  
_" 'Ere." Carefully, she poured out a small pile onto the table for her. " 'Ow many?" _  
_"Not too much." He stretched out an arm and gave the boiling mixture a quick stir with a wooden spoon. "Five or six should do." _  
_The girl selected the largest out of the jar. Her choices were slow and deliberate; if one fly had so much as a rip in one of its diaphanous wings, she put it back and chose another. _  
_Claire's eyes were on him again, watching every move he made. He noticed the weight of her stare; he turned; she turned, picking up a lacewing fly and pressing its wings together so that they crumbled between her fingertips. _  
_Once the girl had six of them in her hand, she lowered herself from her seat and presented them to him. Claire tousled her golden hair quickly before she slipped away. What an adorable little pup. _  
_"Will these do?" _  
_"Perfect." _  
_Claire made her way over to the counter as well. She stood close to him, just close enough without touching. He lifted her up over the pot and she dropped them in, one by one. She leaned forward to do so, and the little silver cross she wore reflected the kitchen light. _  
_The flies swirled around in the mixture before dissolving with a little sparkle. The pot's contents changed colour, from grey to a light blue. _  
_Claire made an idle gesture in picking up each of the jars and scanning the labels casually. Fluxweed. Bicorn horn. In sealed plastic bags were the hair samples of her werewolf comrades, Jarohnen and Toby. Another bowl lay on the counter filled with a custard-like substance. She checked the ingredients for that as well. Eel Slime. Asphodel root. Camel hoof. Beeswax. _  
_"Zese are separate from ze potion, are zey not?" _  
_"It's a quickening agent," he said, still holding the girl in his arms. She was stirring the wooden spoon for him. "The Polyjuice Potion usually takes a month of boiling until it's ready; the additive will cut the time down significantly." Those hazel eyes came in contact with hers. A quiet, veiled emotion came from them. _  
_"Ah." Claire nodded slowly, then stepped away, moving her head aside as if something had caught her eye. Jarohnen leaned against the kitchen doorway, observing the scene coolly. He had watched her as she had watched him as he stirred the unfinished potion. A warm flush came to her cheeks, and she put a hand to her face. Yet then their eyes met and Claire didn't look away. She knew the question that would come from him. _  
_"Be sure that you clean up the mess afterwards," she said. "I have some calls to make." _  
_He nodded his head. She was measuring out some of the Boomslang skin. "Careful, my girl, careful." They didn't notice Jarohnen standing behind them; they didn't expect anything. Claire gave them no reason to. _  
_She was now in her office with a large tome in her lap. The print was in Russian, with a hand-written French translation underneath. There were little notes in the margins, some in Russian, some in English, some in French, and a few scribbles in the ancient Pyrenées dialect, the mother tongue of her clan. _  
_On a fresh page, she wrote in sharp ink "Polyjuice Potion" and listed the following: _

_Amt: 2 ½ pts. _  
_6 qt. water _  
_5 or 6 large Lacewing flies, whole _  
_3 leeches, whole _  
_2 tbsp. chopped Fluxweed, w/o seeds, (FM variety) _  
_½ m. of Knotgrass, untied _  
_¼ c. of shredded Boomslang skin _  
_7 tsp. of bicorn horn _

_Catalysing agent: _  
_1 c. eel slime _  
_½ asphodel root, _  
_chopped 6 oz. raw beeswax… _

_Jarohnen read over her shoulder. Claire finished writing down the rest of the instructions and put down the pen on her desk. She raised the book up, as if asking for approval. One glance and he closed the book, his hand resting on hers for a split moment before drawing back. Claire waited until he left before she put the spell book away. _

That was it.  
She opened her eyes. That was why Ulysses had come. Jarohnen had told him, through whatever secretive means of communication they used. They were hatching his own escape plan and needed her help. Specifically, they required the spell books that Jarohnen had given to her, the ones which she had hidden in a place only she knew.  
Yet her spell books weren't among the items that were brought here. They must be still stowed away beneath the floorboards of her office at the old Safehouse, which was now re-possessed by the Ministry. If the Freedom Hounds could risk it, they would be able to retrieve them, now that they forged an alliance between them and the Gaczyna pack. The Gaczyna pack had specialists in the field; they would know how to handle things.  
Ulysses wanted an owl to be sent to him soon with the location of the books. She could give him the note if she wanted to.  
If Jarohnen was free, could he possibility find him? Remus Lupin. He had vanished from the public scene after the December full moon. Possibility he was holed up with his friend Sirius Black. Claire wasn't sure if she could trust the wizard, but if he claimed they were friends, then they must be. What bothered her, though, was that Remus had never told her anything about him. It scared her that she would care for a wolf that told her nothing.  
Did she really care for him? She certainly liked the way he had helped her with his magic. She liked how he had cared for his pup, how he had held her and spoken kindly to her and told her bedtime stories at night. She liked how he seemed to trust her and the way he had looked at her. And once, she finally remembered a little dance in front of a café. He had fumbled around awkwardly, his palms sweaty, and, yes, he had stepped on her toes. But in all the clumsiness he had there was something else -

_"Ya could learn so much from him, comrade, and he would be very willin'." _  
_They were walking down the hall, whispering, as the card game proceeded in the common room. Downstairs, her comrade Dominic was raising his bet by five cigarettes. _  
_"Too rich for my blood," she could hear Ulysses saying, folding his cards. _  
_"I'll raise you ten," Toby challenged. _  
_Dominic replied, "You don't have ten." _  
_"Fine, I'll throw in my hat." _  
_"What do you think this is? Strip poker?" _  
_"Well," Antonia's tenor voice laughed, "if it is, I wanna see kiddo here take something off other than his hat!"_  
_A slap was heard and an exclamation came from the younger wolf. Accompanying hilarity ensued below. The uproar faded as they entered Jarohnen's room. _  
_"Don't ya see that this is the chance we've been waitin' for?" the Ianikit said. "Wizardin' werewolves don't just fall out of the sky." _  
_Claire protested, " 'E would be unwilling." _  
_"Ya never know. The interest is fermenting in his eyes, and he spends his time sittin' with us. He doesn't talk, but he listens and I see the intrigue grow on his face." _  
_"I don't know." She found herself speaking faster. "One can never tell when they're new. You're being too 'opeful," she ended, plunking herself down on the cot. _  
_"Have ya even tried? He was here for over three weeks, just the two of ya." _  
_"And Mary," she added. _  
_"Da, and the girl." Jarohnen frowned a bit. _  
_"Don't say zat I 'ave not thought about zat," she snapped, a bit of irritation in her voice. He stopped beside the cot where she sat. She could feel his eyes penetrate her. Unable to withstand it, she got up from her seat and turned away. _  
_He spoke to her back in a low tone. "But ya've done nothin'. Have ya forgot everythin' I taught ya? Did ya forget your purpose?" _  
_Lowering her eyes, Claire put a hand to her forehead. "Jarohnen, remember what I said before? I would stay out-" _  
_"What ya said hasn't anythin' to do with this-" _  
_"-I would only provide a place-" she continued, her voice rising. _  
_"How could this opportunity slip us by-" _  
_"-I will not be involved anymore-" _  
_"Did ya forget how far we go?" _  
_"Did you forget what 'appened?" _  
_"Why are ya the only one who regrets it? Not even Toby has any remorse. He laughs about it now." _  
_" 'E was only fifteen years old! 'Ow can you expect one so young to see ze consequences when ze passion and ze fighting blinds his senses? 'E was too young." Claire stopped, as her volume had risen significantly. _  
_"And ya were the same age once." Jarohnen watched her, with those eyes like shards of glass. His voice had retained its levelled quality throughout the conversation, contrasting her emotion. "Do I sense a note of resentment?" _  
_She waved a hand in a quick, frustrated gesture, as if she could simply push their matters away. Instead of answering his question, she replied with, "Besides, Remus does not care for me zat way. 'E loves 'is pup too much. It would 'ave never worked." _  
_His brow deepened as if a strange notion was running across it. For a moment, she thought he was angry with her. She went to the door and he spoke, rich and dark and soft, like the thickest notes of his violin. "I see now. Forgive me for thinkin' such thoughts, my comrade. My friend." _  
_She glanced back, her hands gripped around the edge of the door. And there he was nothing but an old wolf with a dream and needing the will to accomplish it. As the two penetrated each other, she could see the shining, silken threads of the web he had spun, the weaving of an illustrious dream. She loved the dream, had always loved the dream. It was what had kept them together for so long. _  
_"I should be ze one to forgive you," she answered. _

Ulysses wanted the note. She could give him the note if she wanted to.  
The door opened and a sliver of light sliced through. Her brother was standing in the doorway. He had been typing something up in his study; the door had been closed when she had passed by two hours before. He was still dressed in a rumpled white button-down with a snug cornflower waistcoat, the golden watch chain swinging as it dangled from his pocket.  
"Claire?" She kept her eyes shut, feigning sleep. A dull ache spread down her lower back, radiating from the point where the brace was digging in. She balled her fists beneath the sheets. Bernard's hands were stuffed in the pockets of his dark trousers.  
"Claire?" he whispered again, hesitantly. He leaned forward and then stepped in with a jerk, as if pushed by an invisible hand.  
It was no use. She opened one eyelid and said archly, "Why have you come?"  
"So you are awake."  
"If only because you woke me."  
"Do you need anything?" Bernard rocked slightly back and forth on his heels, hands still in his pockets. He was wearing a pair of thick, prescription goggles with an elastic strap to keep them on his head. Because he didn't like the feeling of waking up blind in the morning, he usually wore goggles to sleep. "If you do, I could have Fifi- "  
"Don't wake her up. I only need someone to carry me over a bit."  
"Oh." He went up to her bedside and laid his hands on the cover. "It shifted?"  
"_Oui_." Gently, he tucked his palms beneath her and moved the cushion back in place. The back of his hands brushed against a steel support pole and he hastily pulled away.  
"There," he said briskly.  
Her pain was instantly alleviated.  
"_Merci_." She paused, waiting for him to take his leave. Bernard lingered for a few moments, however.  
"Kay called on the conference mirror this afternoon," he said, "while you were at your therapy."  
Claire smiled warmly at the mention of her younger brother's pet name. At the moment, Caleb was back at the ancestral castle with his young family, which included a trio of two-month old pups, upon Claire's orders that he return home.  
She asked eagerly, "How's he doing?"  
"He bears this message for you, 'I see now why they say bad things come in threes.'"  
"His pups still have colic?"  
"For at least another month."  
"What a blessing it must be for them."  
"The noise drives Great-Uncle Léopold into a fit. Even Mother, half-deaf as she is, can hear them."

"Then it must be quite an unhappy household."  
"No more unhappy than it was when Kay was a newborn. I call it retribution."  
Claire rolled her eyes. "He was such a cranky cub."  
"And he still is."  
A chuckle escaped her. A comfortable camaraderie settled down between them. "Why are you wearing those?" she asked, referring to his peculiar eyewear. "Did you break your glasses again?"  
"These?" Bernard adjusted the elastic strap. "It was in case I fell asleep at my desk." She envisioned her brother in his cluttered study, weary-eyed, typing up a research report or whatever, then kneeling over and banging over the keyboard, snoring. He used to do the same while studying at home and would wake up with papers stuck to his forehead and his bottle-thick lenses scratched. How typical.  
"You look just as you did as when you were ten. Goggle-Eyes."  
"Really?" He fired back his old childhood taunt. "Tomboy."  
"Goggle-Eyes."  
"Tomboy."  
"Now who's acting like a pup?"  
"Certainly not I, tomboy." They exchanged little smiles in the dark and Claire felt as if they were two pups once more, a time when they had still shared a familiar bond and familiar respect and familiar affections. For a moment, she felt as if Bernard was himself and not a poor imitation of his namesake. Ephemeral this feeling was, and it vanished like sand through a sieve, leaving emptiness behind.  
In the distance, a car horn beeped. Uneasiness swept over them both.  
"It's late," Bernard said abruptly.  
The pocket watch was pulled out of his pocket and he checked the time quickly, flipping and shutting the etched lid with his thumb. He tucked the timepiece back into his pocket, the chain swinging, the gold glinting in the splinter of hallway light.  
"Of course, of course," she agreed hurriedly. But Bernard was already exiting the room.  
"Go to sleep," he said in a paternal tone and shut the door behind him.  
Tomorrow. Claire would fetch Aristotle and send Ulysses the note tomorrow. If Bernard asked, she would say that another wolf had requested her help and advice. Lying to him was so simple; after all, he was her brother.

Chapter 9

_Sirius,_  
_Something unusual happened last night and I reckoned you'd want to know about it. I told you about my clue for the Second Task, right? Well, I was up trying to solve what it meant and had to go to the prefect's bathroom in order to puzzle it out (the screeching jumble that came from the egg was actually my clue being sung, by the way – I had to hold the egg underwater to hear it). I was heading back to the Gryffindor Tower when I looked down at the Marauder's Map and saw Mr. Crouch going through Snape's office. I wasn't paying much attention to where I was going, and my foot got stuck on a trick step in the stairwell. That made me accidentally drop the egg and the Map, and Filch came around because of all the noise the falling egg caused. I had my Invisibility Cloak on, though, and he didn't see me, although Mrs. Norris noticed something. _  
_While I hid, Snape came around, saying that someone had been through his office. When Filch showed him the egg, Snape knew that I wasn't too far away. Most likely he thought that I was the one who ransacked his office. But before he and Filch could go up and find me, Moody came. He could see me because of his magical eye, but he never said a word. He actually protected me from getting in trouble with Snape. _  
_While both of them were talking, they were really tense with each other. Snape said that Moody had searched his office once too – Moody said that he thought Snape was hiding something. Moody also said that Dumbledore's only letting Snape stay because he's giving him a second chance and that he was keeping an eye on him._  
_They were all about to leave, but Moody spotted the Map on the bottom of the stairwell where it dropped. Snape saw it too, and must have remembered the time when he caught me with the Map before (I'm sure Professor Lupin told you all the details about that one.) But Moody covered for me and turned Snape and Filch back to bed. He got my foot out of the trick step and wasn't mad about why I was wandering the halls at night. Except… well, he asked if he could borrow the Map too. I didn't see anything wrong with that, and Moody did help me out, and so I let him. I hope that you're not mad about that, Sirius, since you helped make it. I don't think that Moody would connect the Map to you or Professor Lupin. _  
_Hope you and Buckbeak are doing well. I'll write again if I find out anything else. _

_Harry _

Sirius stared at the letter for quite some time, thinking. The Hogwarts owl that had delivered it had already been sent back; he couldn't afford to send a reply back, at least not yet. Surely something was not right.  
Crouch. The letter crumpled in his hand. That bastard. If Crouch was involved with this, then something certainly was wrong. The damn bastard who locked him up, threw him in that shit hole for twelve years without a trial-  
Oh, but not only was Crouch a fishy persona in Sirius's mind. He glanced at a line from the letter again. Snivellus the Sneak. My, oh my, were things getting interesting at Hogwarts.  
Sometimes Sirius couldn't believe that Snape still stuck around school. While hunting Peter the Rat down the year before, the fact that Snape was Potions Master there hadn't truly registered in his mind, just like the fact that Lupin taught Defence Against the Dark Arts. Everything, in fact, had been nothing more than a paranoid, vengeance-fuelled dragon run for Sirius during the few months after his escape. Only after the confrontation at the Shrieking Shack last June had Sirius discovered that he still possessed a purpose other than throttling the traitor's neck.  
But go figure that Snape was still at Hogwarts. The fellow was such a horrid loser he probably wouldn't be successful anywhere else other than at the school he attended. Sirius couldn't understand why Dumbledore trusted the man enough to keep him around; he secretly liked to think it was because Dumbledore pitied him.  
Immediately, he rebuked himself for having such a juvenile opinion. Sure, Snape might be a sneak, but certainly, Dumbledore must keep him around for a better reason that pity. The Headmaster always had good reasons for choosing his staff; the people he employed the longest he usually trusted the most. Grudgingly, Sirius had to accept the fact that Dumbledore trusted Snape.  
Personally, Sirius couldn't understand how Lupin had managed to put up with the Sneak for an entire school year. It was as if Lupin had forgiven Snape for being the slimy git he was. Even in the Shrieking Shack last year, the Potions master was acting like he had a stick up his ass. And, after all these years, why would Snape hold a little sixteen year-olds stunt under such contempt? If nothing else, Snape deserved to be shaken up a little.  
It was during their fifth year at Hogwarts when Sirius couldn't bear having Snape on their backs. He and his friends – the Marauders they liked to call themselves, after the Map they had created during their fourth year – were always tailed by Severus Snape, that pestering, nose-butting, slimy-haired kid who always managed to tattle on them one way or another. Sirius couldn't stand Snape; to him, that Slytherin would always be Snivellus the Sneak.  
Sirius always thought that Snape had something in it for them. Snape had always hung around with a bad crowd anyway: Rosier and Wilkes, who were rumoured to practice voodoo curses up in their dormitories; Lestrange, the boy who always looked at you oddly, like he was trying to crack open your skull with his mind; Avery the aggressive Pureblood who teased his Muggle-born classmates. They always were against Gryffindor, especially their Quidditch team. Snape always called them arrogant jocks, but of course Sirius knew he was only jealous.  
Snape's little group wasn't to be underestimated, however. They weren't exactly the leaders of Slytherin – a house filled with such individual self-ambition always had rivalling factions within itself, and no clique was held up with respect and admiration by all – but they certainly had trademark distinction. Frankly, each member had at least three or four personal enemies, and at least five or six higher family connections. All except Snape. His family had been of the lower middle-class and rather unimportant Purebloods; Sirius had no idea how he had managed to fit in with a pack of Slytherin elitists.  
Maybe then it was because his friends tormented and ridiculed so many other students that the Marauders felt it was justifiable to make a few tricks against them – similar to being the avengers of the schoolyard. The Slytherin bunch never exactly found out who put Boil Powder into their wardrobes or why Avery suddenly grew Dumbo ears during his sleep. And once during a rather vicious prank involving rubber bands and lawn gnomes, Sirius, feeling rather cocky, left a note signed, "Compliments from Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs."  
That was his first mistake.  
Snape and his bunch became murderous in their attempt to find out who exactly was plotting against them. Their feelings turned, of course, toward their own house arch nemeses, but Snape suspected an outside party. It was he who began secretly spying on James and his doings. A few days before the final match of the season, it was a full moon, and the start of the Marauders' monthly routine of taking Lupin to the Whopping Willow. It was there Snape caught them.  
James assured Sirius that nothing would come of it. Yet Sirius saw what Slytherins were capable of. The Sneak would squeal on them to his friends and get the Marauders all into trouble. They all had their ways of getting information: what if any of them decided to investigate the Willow? What if they discovered the Shrieking Shack? What if they found out what it was used _for?_  
The month slowly grated away into nothing, like how a hacksaw bit into gnarled wood. Would Snape tell? Had he? Or was he trying to use this as some kind of blackmail against the Marauders? Any other pranks and he'd snitch on them. Filthy bastard.  
As the full moon approached, Sirius couldn't keep mum any longer. He had to know. If Snape took his filthy friends down to the Shrieking Shack during the full moon… Thus, Sirius planned to have a little chat with his classmate.  
Unfortunately, one little confrontation in the Great Hall turned into an all-out fistfight. Afterwards, with both their houses 150 points poorer, Snape and Sirius were assigned a detention. Sentenced to fertilising the greenhouse patches for Professor Hedgerow instead of joining his best friend James in kicking Slytherin butt at their final match of the season was not something Sirius looked forward to. And while slopping dragon dung on mandrake beds with his most hated enemy, he said those damning words with the anger Sirius Black was known for:  
"You want to know what's there? Fine! Go there!"  
But it was more than words that dared Snape to go. Sirius happened to have his wand, drawn out unthinkingly, pressed against Snape's chest.  
He stared back at Sirius with cool, dark eyes. "Are you challenging me to a duel, Black?"  
Sirius didn't answer. Don't kill him. He remembered thinking that very strongly, but now, for the oddest reason, he couldn't recall why. Don't. Kill. Him.  
With all the strength he could muster, he had turned away.  
Now that he thought about it, Sirius could see how that action could be misinterpreted. But somewhere deep inside him, he wanted Snape to get the wrong message. He knew, then, subconsciously, that Snape would go down to the Shrieking Shack.  
But Sirius wasn't planning to meet him there. For then moon grew to its monthly peak, and Lupin would be there to meet him instead.  
Extremely childish - yes. Unbelievably stupid - yes. But Sirius couldn't help it. All he anticipated was the dirtbag screaming yellow as he burst out of the Willow's tunnel when he came face-to-face with a full-grown werewolf.  
And when he did realise the complete idiocy of his actions, he _tried_ to prevent them. Honest he did. James and Peter were supposed to tend to Lupin while he went off to find Snape. Was it really _his_ fault that Snape believed Sirius has challenged him to a duel? Was it _his_ fault that Snape had disappeared somewhere (probably trying to perfect what skills he had) while Sirius frantically searched the entire castle for him? Was it _his_ fault that Snape arrived at the Shrieking Shack while Sirius was still at Hogwarts and just as Lupin's transformation was about to start?  
Timing was at fault here, not Sirius.  
Or so he believed for the longest time. Only now in retrospect could Sirius admit that he acted like a hot-headed jackass.  
James's bravery was the single thing that saved Snape's life that night. His intervention prevented Snape from turning into wolf chow and Lupin from turning into a murderer. Yet that was the only bright side to the situation.  
Only once did Sirius see Dumbledore angry, and that was when he was sent up to the Headmaster's office the next morning. It wasn't a kind of raging anger either, but a slow frothing temper, like the old professor was filled with bubbling magma that was about to explode at any given moment. Squirming in his seat in front of Dumbledore's giant desk, Sirius actually feared the usually kindly wizard.  
Yet Lupin's anger was much more hurtful. Eventually, Dumbledore forgave him for The Prank; in contrast, Sirius always wondered if he ever regained Lupin's respect. Sirius could recall the stony silences and cold encounters that took place months after. Lupin purposely steered himself out of Sirius's life: holing himself up in the library to study, disappearing for hours on end doing who-knows-what who-knows-where, not even speaking to him during class. He knew Lupin blamed him for purposely taking advantage of his werewolf nature to scare the Sneak. And it was true. But the regret haunted him more than the fact that he lost his second-string position on the Quidditch team, or the fact that rumours about why that happened were spreading around the school. All was lost to Sirius except the thought of his betrayal.  
He honestly didn't mean it that way. He didn't. But how could he make Lupin understand a person like him who always put thought before action? No matter what he would say, Sirius knew that Lupin wouldn't truly comprehend his viewpoint because Sirius was Sirius and Lupin was Lupin – two separate minds that thought in two separate ways. Despite all those odds against him, though, Sirius would do anything – anything – to win back Lupin's friendship.  
Even when the school year ended, their former connection seemed to be cleaved in half. He lost contact with Lupin over the summer; well, it was more like Lupin cut him off totally. Every single owl Sirius sent him was returned unopened, including his birthday present.  
Their seventh year seemed to mark an end to the Marauders. Lupin bulked up on Intensive Magical Creatures Studies and Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts. Because of this, their schedules weren't the same anymore; Lupin didn't share any classes with him – or with James and Peter for that matter. The only time Sirius ever saw his old friend was during lunches and after classes. Passing him by in the corridors, Sirius would wave with hidden urgency to catch Lupin's attention. But Lupin was always shuffling through his knapsack, or had his nose buried in some textbook. Simple waves then progressed into dropping his books at his feet, spilling his inkbottle on the floor, created headlong "accidental" collisions with him in the middle of the hallway. Each time Sirius encountered him, though, Lupin would gather his books together, or wave his wand to mop up the spilt ink, murmur politely, "Sorry about that, Sirius," as if it was his fault and continue on his way.  
If only Sirius could have said, "Sorry about that, Remus," and been equally forgiven.  
Finally, it was James who managed to get Lupin and Sirius on speaking terms once more. In the very last months at Hogwarts, the group became the Marauders again. Adventures were plotted, gags were pulled, and their Map was finally perfected. Sometimes, though, an unsettling emptiness would creep between them. Those times, Sirius would horse around or at least say something brash and random, as if filling up the space. Now years later when supposedly both of them had matured and gotten over this, the emptiness had invaded their lives.  
Could The Prank, then, have been the first stone in the rocky path between them? Later, when the threat of Voldemort was the greatest, and no wizard knew who was a Death Eater and who wasn't, Sirius had admitted that he suspected Lupin to be a danger. Yet he only had suspected because he was sure the werewolf did not consider him to be a close friend anymore. The tables were then turned: it was he who began ignoring Lupin. Letters were unanswered, drinks at the pub were cancelled, and conference mirrors had Automatic Answering Spells cast on them. And one night, at James's flat while packing up the last of their things before Dumbledore would take the Potters into hiding…

_"I don't know, Sirius," James whispered. "Are you sure you want to do this?" He ran a hand through his raven hair and pushed up his glasses. He always did that when he got worried. _  
_"Positive," he replied. _  
_Both made sure to keep their voices low, for the kitchen wasn't very far from the living room. But this conversation wasn't new to either of them. Sirius had voiced his apprehensions to James earlier over the mirror the week before. News was heard that several werewolves had been connected with Voldemort's Dark Alliance. Entire clans, in fact, had joined forces with him and were infiltrating Muggle and wizard society, plotting massacres. The Registry's Werewolf Capture Unit was on high alert, trying to track down the Dark Lord's allies before it was too late. Time was running short; it was only a couple weeks until the next full moon. _  
_James knew all this information well enough, but continued to have some doubts about Sirius's proposition. _  
_"Didn't you get a chance to talk to Peter?" _  
_"Yesterday." James sighed. "He was supposed to be here today, but called this morning saying that Ministry work is holding him up." _  
_Ah, his internship. Things over there were hectic enough already. Sirius hoped Peter would be able to cope. _  
_"I haven't had the chance to talk with Lily about this, you know. She would never believe that Moony…" he trailed off, unwilling to finish his sentence. _  
_Both their eyes were drawn to the open doorway leading into the next room. Only a few cardboard boxes packed up with family knick-knacks and personal items were packed; Dumbledore had assured the Potters that their new residence would be fully furnished. _  
_Lupin was lying back on the rug, raising Harry up in the air. "Up, up, up you go, Harry!" he said in a singsong voice. "Up, up, up!" James's son squealed joyfully, waving carefree limbs as Lupin lifted him up in the air. "You're flying; you're flying!" he exclaimed lightly. Harry's laughter drifted into the kitchen. _  
_Watching him there, playing with the baby, Sirius felt a strange emotion twist inside him: a sickening, thick feeling, like his nerves were being twisted and coiled into a tight ball at the base of his stomach. It wasn't fear or nervousness, but mistrust. Here was a possible spy, carrying on with his best friend's child, right in their very home! Of course, James and Lily were going to go into hiding tomorrow, to a place none would know except Dumbledore and the Secret Keeper. But who was there to stop Voldemort from charging in right that very minute? _  
_A horrible vision came to Sirius's eyes: Lupin jumping up to his feet, with Harry squirming in his hold, the baby's smiles turning to bawls, and with a flourish of his wand, he shouting in an wild voice, "I have them, my Lord! They're here!" _  
_"Ahh!" An exclamation came from the next room. _  
_Sirius jumped, putting a hand to his wand. "Y-Your son," Lupin's voice broke into hearty laughter, "I – I do believe that your son's drool just got into my - my eye!"_  
_Lily burst out into hysterics, tripping over words as she exclaimed, "Oh, I'm so sorry, Rem! Harry, you – hah hah – you naughty, naughty boy!" _  
_Lupin sat back up and returned the child back to his mother, blinking hard. He rubbed his left eye, chuckling. "It's all right, Lily. I'll be fine," he spluttered, unable to control his mirth. "I think I'll go pour some water over this."_  
_He stepped into the kitchen. James, turning his head away as Lupin passed, quickly entered the living room. "Lily, what kind of troublemaker do we have here?" he jested, grinning. _  
_Sirius watched silently as Lupin made his way over to the sink and turned on the faucet. Splashing a few handfuls of water in his face, he called, "Hey, Padfoot, could you hand me something?" He obliged, tossing a dishtowel Lupin's way. _  
_Lupin wiped his eyes quickly, giving a roguish smile. His expression changed when he saw Sirius's face. "Are you alright?" he asked, concerned. _  
_Sirius took his hand off his wand. He had been clasping it so tightly; his fingernails had made an imprint upon his palm. Rubbing that hand against the side of his robes, he replied, "Just great." A mischievous grin appeared. "Vicious little tyke, isn't he?" _  
_"Positively murderous." Lupin veered back to his original question. "You and Prongs seem awfully quiet tonight. What's going on?"_  
_"Nothing." Sirius stared out the darkened window to avoid Lupin's look. "Voldemort has been more of a threat lately and-" _  
_"Well, Dumbledore said he'd protect them, right?" Lupin glanced into the living room, where the Potters settled themselves on the couch. "He's taking them somewhere tomorrow."_  
_Fear. He knew - he knew and Voldemort was going to find out. Sirius's finger itched for his wand. He wasn't going to let Lupin escape this house; no, he wasn't going to let that werewolf get away- _  
_"Yes, yes," Sirius said quickly. "Very hush-hush and all that. No one would know except Dumbledore." _  
_"And the Secret Keeper of course," Lupin added. _  
_His blood turned to ice. "Y-yes," Sirius said. "And the Secret Keeper. Chosen only by Dumbledore." _  
_What a lie. Sirius knew who the Secret Keeper was going to be; he had convinced James to choose Peter- _  
_Now the nervous tension was too strong to be ignored. Lupin stepped up to Sirius until they stood barely inches away from each other. _Relax,_ Sirius snapped to himself. _Don't reveal anything. Wolves can smell dark emotions. It's like a sixth sense to them.  
_In a steady, measured tone, his suspected friend whispered, "Sirius, is there something going on that I don't know about?" _  
Speak for yourself, spy  
_Sirius shook his head. "Do any of us know anything during these dark times?" he said gravely. It took all of his effort to grasp Lupin on the side of his arm. His grip was firm, and Sirius tried to make it out as reassuring. "But we'll be there for them." _  
_Lupin nodded. "We'll be there together," he affirmed. _  
_That convoluted feeling was running through Sirius and he wanted to spit, "You liar! I won't let you hurt them! You hear that, wolf? I won't let you give them to Voldemort!" _  
_But he didn't. _  
_Thankfully, Lily broke the moment. "What are you two doing in there?" she shouted. "There're still some boxes we need to tape up." _  
_Sirius threw an arm around Lupin's shoulders. He shuddered inwardly at the brotherly gesture. "I dunno. Moony here seems to be suffering from a fatal wound!" he answered loudly. "At least he may be blinded for life!" _  
_"Oh, you're so right, Padfoot. I think the infantile venom is starting to burn…!" Lupin fell against him, convulsing in false throes of pain. "Good Lord! My eyes! My precious eyes!" _  
_"Oh stop it!" James appeared in the doorway, with two cardboard boxes stacked in his arms. "Now are you going to help me load up the car or what?" _  
_Lily came into the kitchen as well, bouncing Harry in her arms. "Here, you terrible little villain," she said. "Give poor Remus a kiss." _  
_"Blah!" cried Harry happily. He blew a raspberry onto Lupin's cheek. _  
_"That's the closest you'll get to an apology from him," she winked. _  
_In turn, Lupin blew a little raspberry in Harry's face. "Then that's the closest he'll get to being forgiven." He turned to Sirius. "C'mon," he said. "Prongs awaits our aid." _  
_He made off into the living room to fetch a box for himself. James watched quietly as the werewolf slipped past. Uncertainty still wrestled within him. Sirius took a box from James's hold and whispered, "It's for the best, James. You can't be too careful." _

Had Lupin know then, that his three closest friends were plotting against him beneath his very nose? That Sirius suspected him to be the traitor and so had chosen Peter Pettigrew to keep the secret of the Potter's location? A ploy that was the worst mistake in his life…  
"Happiness leaves a more painful haunting." Painful haunting indeed. Damn, why did Lupin have to be so right?  
Next to that fateful Halloween in 1981, the last night in the Potters flat was the one that had resided in Sirius's mind the most while withering away in Azkaban. Because with every smile, every laugh, and every joke that Lupin cracked that night came the memory of Sirius's anger and distrust. Each moment that night was a lie, with one piling on top of another, creating a tower of deceit that toppled upon them all. And within the nightmare and the ill feelings came the truth, booming in his mind, "But you were wrong, Sirius. You were wrong. You betrayed them all, Sirius. You betrayed them all with the Prank, and you betrayed them again to their doom."  
Considering all this, no wonder Lupin acted the way he did! The horrible break between them had its roots during their Hogwarts years and branched out across time. But was Lupin initiating this distance on purpose? Or were all of Lupin's cold reactions the result of the unconscious workings of his mind?  
Would Lupin continue to do this to him? Was each day that passed without word from him another post sign pointing toward ruin? Did his friend even realise that any word from him would be more valuable to Sirius at that moment than a pardon from Cornelius Fudge?  
Damn it all, why did Sirius have to ponder this now? He had a job to do, and his friend wasn't here now and certainly wouldn't be coming back any time soon. Sirius glanced out of the crevice at the grey-blue sky. Not an owl in sight. Lupin hadn't even told him where he was going.  
This sudden thought was a spear plunging into his heart. Sirius has realised beforehand that Lupin had never told him where he was going, but then, only then while milling about in dark memories, did the tremendous sadness of that fact strike him hard in the chest.  
Lupin hadn't even _considered_ telling Sirius where he was going.  
Sirius threw down the letter and stomped outside. A little thaw was beginning to come to the mountain and a not entirely unwelcome breeze slipped by him. Buckbeak was curled up on a broad, bare rock, sunning himself. He raised his head upon Sirius's approach.  
"Craw," he welcomed happily, stretching out his wings.  
"Nah, I'm not really up to getting some sun today, ol' boy," Sirius muttered. "You'll just relax up here. I'm heading down."  
"Eeer?"  
"Just to get some food. That's all."  
Buckbeak blinked and flicked his tail. "Cr-crawwww…"  
"No," he replied tiredly, "I'm not going to meet up with Zaria."  
That hippogriff chuckle bubbled up again. Sirius whirled around and aimed a finger at the animal. "Now just shut up about that, will you?" he snapped. "I'm certainly not in the mood for your little comments."  
Buckbeak bowed down his head in a gesture of innocence and battled his eyes at Sirius. "Squawk. Crrrr-awwww!" His flicked his tail up once more and clicked his tongue.  
"Hey, if I was going down to see her - which I'm not - I see nothing worth giggling like a schoolgirl about. She's my meal ticket. Get it, Bucky-bird? Meal tic-_ket_."  
Buckbeak continued to splutter to himself and rolled onto his back, pawing his forelegs into the air. Ye gods, Sirius couldn't see what was so funny. He transformed into a dog and loped down the mountain.  
In truth, Sirius wasn't planning to meet up with anyone. He was in another bad mood and preferred to wallow in it alone. All he wanted to do was track down a nice, plump rat to gnaw on. Since beginning his rat-hunting pastime, Sirius had discovered that tormenting little creatures was a good exercise in relieving negative emotions. Rats were never plump this time of year, unfortunately; most were terribly scrawny, with their ribs showing and their fur all coarse and dirty. What Sirius sought was a sleek, fat sucker ready for the pouncing.  
What he found instead was the familiar dark shape sniffing about the tall grasses. Sirius had never voiced an expectation that she would reappear a second time, but in his subconscious mind he had probably figured that she was keeping tabs on him. So perhaps it was some sort of Freudian slip that he happened to be wandering in the fields outside the village when he spotted her no less than fifty yards away.  
Zaria had her nose to the moist earth by a tussock of dried, tangled weeds and bushes, deep in concentration. He wasn't sure whether to avoid her or welcome her and so he simply watched. The black Lab was trailing a scent. Most likely his.  
He presumed correctly. Soon enough, Zaria raised her head and caught him within her sights. She trotted over to meet him and stopped just a few feet away. The musty smell of rotting vegetation must be irritating her nose; she blinked rapidly and sneezed.  
_Bless you_, Sirius thought habitually.  
Zaria sniffed loudly and eyed him with that curious stare she had used the last time, the look in which she seemed to be calculating his exact appearance, weight, height and girth all at the same time and filing all that information away into that mysterious brain of hers. Or maybe she was just checking him out. Either way, her stare wasn't exactly comforting. Well, considering the latter view, Sirius could be flattered, but he had yet to decide upon whether having a doggie devotee was a good thing or not.  
Nevertheless, he didn't feel up to dealing with her now. He turned around and took a step toward the mountain, then he checked himself. She would follow him, wouldn't she? He gave a backward glance and saw her already coming to his side. How do you reject a black Lab in the politest way possible? If Sirius actually considered being polite, he would have come up with one. He wasn't truly in a courteous mood at all, though, and so used the more direct method.  
Sirius curled back his lip and gave quick, threatening growl. _Sod off! I want to sulk in privacy! _  
That said, he made for the hills. Running unleashed the bitter remorse inside him. His lungs filled up with crisp, cold air, his blood charged through his veins. His head cleared, his vision seemed sharper. The mindless act of running gave him something to focus on, to concentrate. While running, he didn't have to think about friends or responsibility or the law. He let go of everything that he was and became something else: the dog within. And this dog wanted to run and was getting one hell of a kick out of it.  
Initially, Sirius believed that he had outdistanced her. He checked; she was retreating in the other direction. _Good,_ he thought, _she was beginning to become a bother anyway. _  
Yet soon, the heavy panting of another sounded behind him.  
Damn.  
Sirius strained his muscles harder, taking all the anger and the grief and the crazy loneliness he felt and transforming it into motion. With a gigantic wave of untamed despair he ran. He ran until his muscles melted into rubber and breathing was like inhaling sand.  
He turned, he looked, and she was still behind him.  
Goddamn, why can't she get the picture! He stopped – more like tripped over his weary paws - and faced her once more. A hoarse, wild barking came from him. _Leave! Me! Alone! _  
Zaria shuffled back a few steps. Sirius saw that she carried something in her mouth. Giving Sirius that steady eye of hers, she dropped the thing in front of him and straightened herself up, sitting. Her nose rose up in a dignified manner. She blinked, almost in a reproaching way, if blinks could contain expression. Then she was gone.  
Sirius stared blankly at the newspaper. What the hell? How did she know he was collecting papers? Backing up a few steps, he looked at it wearily, as if it might explode upon contact. But the newspaper was only a battered, outdated _Daily Prophet_, crumpled and covered with Zaria's saliva. Curiously enough, the paper was folded to show this headline: _Mystery Illness of Bartemius Crouch_.  
Crouch? Sirius gave a jump. What mysterious illness? And how did Zaria know that he needed this? Was it only a coincidence? Was someone else watching him? Had _she_ been watching him? The paranoia flamed up again. Sirius turned his head in one direction, then another, slowly moving away from the paper.  
Why hadn't he been careful before? He had better return to the cave. Never mind the cave, maybe he should find another hiding place… Sirius was about to hightail it, when he wondered whether he should take the _Daily Prophet_ with him. Surely, it wasn't a danger to him, was it? But there could be some kind of tracking spell cast on it. What if Zaria was some kind of spy sent by the Ministry, trying to track him down? An Animagus sent out to get him?  
He couldn't stay here then! He had to get back; he had to get Buckbeak and himself out of the mountains! Ignoring Zaria's offering, Sirius sprinted away.

Chapter 10

His name was Douglas Ridley.  
Lupin stared at himself in the mirror. It was an exercise he did to get into character: stare into the mirror and re-create his outward personality, like moulding clay, to form another. His name was Douglas Ridley. Douglas Ridley was thirty-eight years old, from a small village near Dumfries. Passing off as a farm hand, Douglas had been a migrant worker for the past ten years, sharing the roads with the dying breed of wandering gypsies with their weather-beaten trailers and peddled goods. Douglas had never had a proper home, family, or friends to speak of; he had no connections.  
Douglas Ridley was the type of man who could vanish from the face of the earth without anyone caring. He was, essentially, an empty man, a man created from nothing, responsible for nothing, and destined toward nothing.  
It was a sad mask for Lupin to wear. But this vacuous character was useful for his purposes, because no one suspected empty people of possessing ulterior motives.  
Lupin began adjusting his features to match this hollow husk. The cap was to be worn low over the eyes; his uniform should be rumpled and unbuttoned at the collar. His boots should always be dirty. If he weren't holding a cleaning brush or a mop, Douglas would put his hands in his pockets. Douglas was laconic, not because he was introverted, but because he was dim-witted. This Squib, however, was very diligent and eager to impress. Lupin thought of Douglas as a puppy dog staring expectantly at its owner, waiting anxiously for a command that would spurn it into instantaneous action.  
He wasn't taking this job for nothing, of course. The benefits were long and withstanding. First of all, he would get paid. Money is good, especially when one is in desperate need of it. Lupin smiled at the irony.  
Of course, there was a deeper reason beyond the superficial one.  
_"I promise to amend my ways if you could only grant her life. Please, Lord... She helped me. She cannot die." _  
Perhaps they were just words, words murmured out of desperation and that had no meaning in them. He believed once, and then doubted himself, only to return to belief again. Yet how much of himself was true and how much was false? Perhaps he was only words, so many words, layered over him like a shield or a blanket, but the shield was of air and the blanket dust. Who could say what he thought or what he thought he thought or whether he really thought at all, or just reacted -- reacted and fretted and repented over so much of nothing? Then if the words were nothing, then God was nothing and he was nothing too. Perhaps he had been deceiving himself throughout his entire life because he needed to cling to something and faith seemed the biggest 'Something' a person _could_ cling to.  
Perhaps.  
Yet he couldn't think that because he loved, and the one he loved believed and had made him believe again and if only he could glance at her pure and innocent face once more he could assure himself that he did believe that there was Something after all.  
Those were his feelings there, while confronting a cracked mirror, becoming someone else.

Lupin arrived at the Ministry dressed for his role. His uniform had been custom-designed right down to the little embroidered name patch on the front. Plus, he had everything he needed: the heavy robe, the scruffy sneakers, the cap, and spectacles. Not to forget a dash of Confundus Cologne for that smell.  
Getting inside the building was quite simple; Lupin came through _Waldo's Plugs and Outlets_ and down the employee's elevator. Its timing had improved since his last experience, for he only fell five floors before the golden sparkles floated over to his aid.  
His new place of occupation, the Custodial Services Office, was located on the sub-terrain, fourth-seventh floor in a low, closeted nook. Lupin politely rapped on the door.  
No one came. Puzzled, he tried again.  
_Knock, knock, knock._  
"Wu're yu leukin' for?"  
Lupin turned his head to see a stocky woman with a freckled face casually leaning against her mop, her custodial cap askew upon her mouse-brown bob of hair. The immediate impression he got was that of an overstuffed chipmunk.  
"Um, hallo," he started. "You're the head of this shift?"  
"Aa nicht an' ev'ry nicht." She tipped her cap. "Yu're the nee laddie, A presum?"  
Lupin was momentarily taken back by her dialect. "Um, Douglas Ridley," he finally blustered, offering his hand quickly.  
"Aye. Welcum tae the gret an' glurious okupition oo janitorial wurk." She accepted quickly, giving his hand a firm shake. "A em Loretta Gordon. No ane caas mi Loretta nou, tho – jus Lottie. C'mon nou – intae the offish. 'Scuse, mi."  
Her name was Loretta Gordon, yet preferred Lottie. That was the gist of what she said. At least that's what Lupin thought.  
Lottie waddled past Lupin, the top of her head barely brushing his chin. She took out a large ring lined with various keys of all shapes and sizes and used a little copper one to unlock the door. Inside was a mess of cleaning supplies. She stepped over a few brooms and mops, righting them up against the painted cinderblock wall.  
"Hame sweet hame," she chattered briskly, waving a chubby hand around the place. "Aa oo the things yu'll ev'r need is stawed arund here sameplace. A gut tae spend a nicht surtin' an pilin' stoo arund, bu' A nev'r sem tae manage tae. Wuns A tried bu' A discov'red tha ev'ry time A tried pulling sameting off the shelf, it wuld jus' cave intae tha' liddin vacum oo space A created. Finee, A guv oop." She chuckled to herself.  
Lupin had no idea what she had just said. To compensate, he looked around the office. Probably she was commenting upon how messy it was. Certainly, he could see why. Shelves of cleaning supplies were stockpiled along the sides, while cardboard boxes filled with coloured spray bottles and jugs seemed to fight each other for floor space. Looking up, he even saw hangers holding up pails from the ceiling. A basket overflowing with rags and sponges covered one corner. Opposite this rag mountain was a lone coat rack weighed down with scarves, mittens and coats. Lottie trudged ahead like a workhorse, kicking away boxes and buckets, leaving a narrow trail for Lupin. This room connected to another, which contained two or three large bins on wheels.  
"For the roobish cullectin'," Lottie explained as he glanced over. A third cramped room held a conference mirror and a shoddy desk covered with paper aeroplanes and crumpled copies of _The Daily Prophet_. Lottie picked up a paper cup from the cluttered desktop and sipped at the cold coffee. "Eef we're nut oot there, wich is a rare thing, we'll bae in here. The coot ruck's free teeritory; yu kin use it anee time."  
Lupin was still staring around the room, pretending interest. Lottie tapped him on the shoulder and gestured to the coat rack.  
"Oh! Um, thankee." Lupin slung the jacket he was carrying over one of the hooks. The coat rack tottered from the added weight, but held up.  
Lottie bounced into the small swivel chair in front of the desk and spun around a couple times. Her stout boot kicked out at the desk and she stopped herself. "So, wair'reyufrum?" she asked conversationally as she drained her cup.  
Lupin was taking his time adjusting his coat upon the rack. He wasn't ignoring her on purpose; he was only trying to figure out her dialect. Maybe it was because he had only sat around the city centre to catch the Scottish voice. Lupin certainly didn't have the time to look into Scots too deeply. His guardian old Murphy was Scottish he knew, but his speech was never as thick as that. Lupin himself was speaking the Standard Scottish English, not whatever coming from her.  
Lottie, confused, said in a loud voice, "Dougie? Kin yu heer mi?"  
"Aye, aye," Lupin said briskly. He turned around and grinned sheepishly. "Can you say it again?"  
Her voice was quick garble of syllables. "Wair'reyufrum?"  
"Ummmm…" He pointed to his ear. "Bad ear."  
"Ah!" Lottie bobbed her head sympathetically. "Waaa-irrr arrrr yuuu frummm?"  
Well, that didn't help any. Lupin gestured frantically to his ears, indicating deafness, then shrugged his shoulders.  
She leaned forward in her chair and questioned carefully, "Dae yu unnerstand the wirds tha' ar' camin' oot oo ma muth?"  
He gave up. Lupin broadened his grin and threw up his hands helplessly. "I'll admit it -- I'm a Sassenach when it comes to the brogue. My mum was English." He gave an embarrassed laugh.  
It was as if he just told her that he was from the planet Mars. "Ye dun say?" Lottie gaped, putting a hand over her heart. Lupin made a grave face.  
"Hey, 'tis not ye fault, Dougie," she replied sincerely, stressing her voice for clarity. "Usually, onlie the Big Anes have trouble wi ma words. A'll try an' speak pan laif wi ye."  
He was immediately relieved. That blunder wasn't too bad. "Aye."  
"Good. Dinnae want us tae be on the wrung foot now, eh? I was jus' askin' aboot where ar' ye from." She enunciated more articulately, as if talking with a tourist or a "Big Ane." Apparently, "pan laif" was equivalent to an affected English accent.  
"Borderlands. A small place just off of Dumfries, actually."  
"Dumfries, eh? Nice place. I've got a nephew doun there. He's got a hard time unnerstandin' me sametimes too."  
She held the cup in front of her eye, making sure it was empty, then tossed it toward the wastebasket. It missed. "I'm surprised tha' the Department oo Bein' Resources finally hired somebody. For a while, I thoot tha they forgut aboot me."  
"The interview was a bit strange," Lupin confessed. "Not to be rude or anything, but the Director took this liddin creature and -"  
"Ye mean Duchess?" She shook her head. "Tha' Mister Burtman." Her voice lowered to a confidential whisper, "Word from the grape vine was tha' he used tae work as a supervisor in Azkaban an' the Dementors twisted what bit oo sanity he got left. Got dismissed after he knocked over a torch an' nearly set a cellblock ablaze. Claimed t'was an accident."  
"Accident?"

" 'Mister Burnt-man,' the Big Anes call him. It's more like his brain's been the thing tha's burnt oop. An' I think tha' liddin 'spirit niffler' or whatev'r he calls it ain't bred by the Ministry a-tall, but was his own creation. Ye knoo wha' I maen?"  
Lupin recalled the apparition's touch during the interview and could see the validity of that statement. "How do you suppose he created a thing like that?" he asked.  
She shrugged. "Probably fed a poor niffler to a Dementor ane day an' wondered what'd happen. But what I say aboot him is this: never trust a man wi a tail, especially if he's in management." She reflected for a moment at this pearl of wisdom, then hopped down from her chair. "I cannae have us gossipin' on ye furst night. Let's tak a liddin trip."  
Before he could reply, she crashed her way through the sea of boxes, avoiding the first path she ploughed. Passing by the room with the garbage carriers, she gave a loud whistle. Immediately, the closest one banged its plastic lid shut and backed up from its companions.  
"Grab a roobbish bin, Dougie, an' follae me," she ordered.  
By the time Lupin reached the door, she was halfway down the hall peddling a cleaning caddy loaded with supplies. Lottie moved awfully fast; maybe short people were somehow more aerodynamic. He humbly trailed last, following the giant garbage carrier, who rolled after her like a trained pet.  
Lupin made Douglas act very excited about this little trick. "How did you do that?" he exclaimed, trying to catch up. "Might you have some magic blood still left in you?"  
She flanked over her shoulder. "I wish," she said, laughing. "Tha' bit oo wonder tae ye? Same oo the tings here, like the carriers an' the vacuums an' such are bewitched by the Big Anes for me. Ev'n a trained monkey could order aboot a magicked roobish bin."  
"So we're all Squibs together, are we?" Lupin pressed, lying.  
"Bitter a Squib than a Muggle as my mither always said," Lottie confirmed.  
She gave a bit of history as they walked toward the elevators. "The Edinburgh offices were mostly built undergrund aboot five hundred years ago," Lottie said over her shoulder, "when the Wizards' Cuncil was still in practice. When the Ministry was established, headquarters was maved tae London. Aboot fifty miles worth oo hallways an' corridors are doun here, so ye can bet ye broomsticks it's hell tae clean."  
Lottie banged her fist against the elevator panel before they entered the empty shaft. Lupin tensed himself for the fall, but gravity wasn't antagonistic this time. He looked around, slightly surprised, as Lottie ordered "Oop!" with a firm upward gesture of her arm. The doors shut smartly in front of them.  
"Eech floor's designated for eech department oo the Ministry. The place is small compared tae London, but we mostly are autonomous from England."  
The golden sparkles whirled thickly in the air as they shot past the floors. _The lifts must be finally in proper order,_ he thought to himself.  
"Lemme give ye the run-thro. I'll get ye a map, but soun, ye'll knoo this place lac the bac oo ye hand. Stoop!"  
They halted with a jolt; Lupin fell, but only landed bottom-first on the non-existent platform. When he scrambled back onto his feet, Lupin found himself suspended in front of a large set of double doors with a pair of ancient Silver Arrow broomsticks mounted cross-wise over the threshold. "This is the Broom-Bagger's Basement, offishally knoon as the Department oo Magical Transportation. It's a very convenient place, for most oo the time, the brooms sweep the floor oop themselves."  
The head janitor took out that plate-sized key chain of hers and stuffed an ornate silver one into the lock. At the sight of the keys, he dropped a blatant comment. "You have keys for everything?" It wasn't something he would say, of course, but Douglas was the type who would ask.  
"Ye betcha. Very few have access tae the entire buildin' other than me."  
"Aye." Lupin feigned awe. In actuality, he knew all about janitors all unlimited access. It was why he had applied for the job in the first place.  
Lottie, flattered, opened the doors with a flourish. "C'man." She peddled her caddy inside, with the rubbish carrier at her heels.  
Lupin entered to see the entire floor deserted. He got an eyeful of the government's most humane forms of being self-entrapment: cubicles. A whole grey maze of them spread out before him, filled with empty shadows. They were underground, and so there were no windows; the only light there was came from the ghost lights from the ceiling, burning bright in a state of perpetual luminescence. The shadows lay about, hugging the prefabricated walls, lounging around desks and swivel chairs, huddled in the corners and cervices. To see a place that was so lively and bustling during the daytime become so empty and hollow during the night was a great contrast to Lupin. He thought of this place to be like some bureaucratic wasteland.  
Meanwhile, Lottie unhitched a vacuum from the cleaning caddy and flicked the switch. Automatically, the hose rose up with a howl of wind, cobra-like, and unfurled itself, becoming over fifty feet long. Its flat head seemed to spot Lupin standing near the entrance and it slithered toward him, twisting and flexing its ridged coils while emitting a high-pitched hiss. He took a couple steps back at its approach, holding onto his cap to be sure it wouldn't get caught in the vacuum's suction.  
"Awww, stoop shewin' oof an' get tae work," Lottie snapped, giving a kick to its plaid-patterned cloth body. The vacuum jumped and retreated from the newcomer, obediently leaning down to clean the office carpet.  
While the vacuum worked, Lottie and Lupin went up and down the aisles, picking up the tiny wastepaper baskets from each cubicle and emptying their contents into the bin. The bin's lid rose up and down while receiving the trash, making a _creak-bang_ sound. Their conversation became intertwined with the constant motion of the rubbish carrier and the raising and lowering of wastebaskets. _Creak._ Toss. _Bang. Creak._ Toss. _Bang._ All together, they imitated some monstrous mechanism marching slowly up and down the aisles.  
_Creak._  
"Where did ye work afore?" Lottie asked.  
Toss.  
Lupin replied in an easy-going manner. "Jus' in the field. Tayberries and tattie howkin'. Nothing much."  
_Bang._  
"So ye worked ootside, eh? Good wi ye hands?"  
_Creak._  
"Maybe."  
Toss.  
"Such a shame tae get stuck here, then. I'd ruther be oot in the fresh aire instead oo this."  
_Bang._  
"How long have you been working here?"  
_Creak. _  
"Six years this March. Crazy, ain't it?"  
Toss.  
"Maybe."  
_Bang._  
Lottie lowered the trash basket she was holding. "I mean, I spend aa day sleeping an' aa night here. It's gotten so bad tha' I have not seen the high noon sun for the past two years."  
_Creak._  
He could tell; Lottie's round face was the colour of bacon fat, and the freckles that spotted her skin showed like specks of dirt.  
"That's pretty bad," he said.  
Toss.  
"Weel, we are the graveyard workers. Dawn 'til dusk an' aa tha'. Lac vampires almost," she grinned at him as another pile of garbage was thrown into the bin. "Or werewolves."  
_Bang._  
"Ow!" Lupin got his hand caught on the closing lid.  
"Careful there, Dougie," Lottie warned. "Ye have tae keep oop."

And so they proceeded from level to level, with Lottie pointing out each floor and their purpose. Most of them were subdivisions of the seven main branches of the Ministry, like the how Office for the Maintenance of Floo Powder Networks was subordinate the Department of Magical Transportation, or how the Office for the Regulation of Quaffle Production was part of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Lottie also provided unique nicknames for each of the main departments, which were much more entertaining than their official, longwinded titles. Along with the Broom-Bagger's Closet were the Wand Order (Department for International Magical Co-operation), Spellotape Squad (Department of Accidental Magic Reversal), the Referee's Locker Room (Department of Magical Games and Sports), and the Stakeout (better known as the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.) Oddly enough, there was no floor for the Department of Mysteries, which Lottie referred to only as Big Brother.  
"Why Big Brother?" Lupin couldn't help asking.  
The janitor waggled her fingers ominously. "Akis they're always watching ye. It's a Muggle allusion the last custodian thoot oop afore he quit. His parents were Muggle-borns, ye see."  
"Ah." Lupin didn't feel particularly comfortable standing in the elevator shafts after that.  
The department that he was the most interested in, however, was the Registry of Magical Creatures. Dubbed by the janitors as the Zookeeper's Lounge, Edinburgh's RMC was an expansive department taking up four levels: one for each division (beast, being and spirit), plus one for management. Even the front doors were intimidating: great iron chains surrounded the doorframe, ending in a giant manacle large enough to straddle a bull by the waist.  
" 'Twas a gift from the dragon keepers oo Romania," Lottie said, pointing at the oiled steel. The manacle's made tae lock itself arund anybody who dares tae break intae the Lunge. It's very sensitive. Watch."  
Lottie took a cleaning brush from the caddy and tossed it toward the doorway. With a sudden blur of grey, the manacle detached itself from its place over the door and pounced at the brush with a crab-like snap. The item was split in half and both pieces tumbled toward the bottom of the shaft.  
Lupin observed the security measure with keen eyes. He would have to find a way past that. "But we're still allowed through, right?"  
"Onlie at certain times, an onlie ev'ry other day."  
"But why so tight compared with the other departments we've seen?"  
"Well, a few years' bac there was a Nundu scare here," Lottie informed him. "Same werewolf extremists sent a letter infected wi Nundu's breath tae a detective. Totally knocked the life oot oo him, an' spread throughoot the entire buildin'. Thank goodness no ane else got infected."  
Lupin stared at the doors. He managed not to finch at the word "werewolf extremists" but the phrase stuck in his mind. A Nundu was a huge magical leopard from Africa, whose disease-laden breath was known to wipe out entire villages. Obtaining and bottling such breath was highly dangerous and carefully regulated; only governments had access to the magic needed to subdue a Nundu.  
"Were the wolves ever caught?"  
Lottie shook her head. "Onlie ane. Same wolfie posed as a mail boy. After they arrested him, thoo, he gave 'em the slip. No ane ev'n knoos his name." She pondered for a moment. "Methinks tha's why wacko Mister Burtman was hired. He claimed tha' his niffler could detect the nature oo the employees. Anybody's who has a questionable identity would've been caught."  
Would they have? Then either Mr. Burtman had played Lupin the fool or an inaccurate niffler had duped them both. Lupin knew that he would have to enact his plan as soon as possible then; or perhaps he should bail out after tonight while he still could…  
"Have anything happened since then?"  
"Not as much as a peep afterwards." Lottie shuddered at the memory and quickly moved away from the unpleasant topic. "Our roobish bin's full. C'man now, Dougie, lemme shew ye the Incinerator. Doun!"  
The golden sparkled shoved them into the very annals of the building, arriving at a gigantic ironwood door riveted with brass and copper. Next to this door was a large chute as tall as a man and two arm-spans wide. Lottie banged her fist against the rusty chute cover.  
"This is the Incinerator, where we dump aa oo the roobbish. Gimme a hand, Dougie."  
Together, they dragged the bin toward the chute as Lottie flipped up the metal cover. Snapping her fingers twice, Lottie hopped back as the giant monstrosity tipped over with a groan upon its front wheels, expelling untold tons of garbage into the soot-lined tunnel. A dark green smoke wafted up from the chute. It smelled like burning newspapers. The scent was so strong that he could practically taste the bitter printing ink in his mouth. Nausea called from his stomach and his eyes watered.  
He turned his head away from the smoke and saw darkness of the shaft around them. The area was wide, apparently made for more traffic. Below his feet, he saw a small form slip into an opening under the Incinerator. He couldn't say for sure, but Lupin swore he saw a tiny patch of mist follow him in.  
A red-chequered handkerchief was waved in from of his brimming eyes. "Hankie?"  
"Thankee." Lupin replied gratefully, quickly wiping his eyes before tying the cloth over his nose and mouth.  
Lottie had done the same herself and was staring at the flow of trash tumbling down the shaft.  
"Doun there's the burning place," she said, her voice muffled. "Five tons oo trash a week. Ov'r 260 tons a year goos doun there."  
"Don't they use magical fires, though?" Lupin inquired. "There mightn't be this much smoke if they do."  
"Aye, the fires ar' magical all right, but some tings give oof smoke nuntheless. Ye wanna meet the stokers? They might be on break."  
"Stokers?" Lupin repeated, but Lottie was already calling through the ironwood door.  
"Hey ye! Ah em oot here wi the nou laddie!" she called, her voice slipping back to the brogue. "Ah knoo ye is havin' breek! Kin ye spare a time an' open oop?"  
"Aye ye!" called a man's voice from the other side. "Haud un tae ye britches!"  
The noise of clumping footsteps was heard, and a little peephole slid open in the centre of the door. A pair of burnt cinder eyes stared out at them.  
"Hallo, Lottie," said the stoker and the peephole shut. The door shuddered as it creaked open. The stoker's face, smeared with soot, stared back at them. He was dressed in dark blue, ash-smeared overalls and had a dirty red kerchief tied around his neck, like an old-fashioned railroad conductor. "Camin! Camin!" he said ushering them inside.  
He led them into what he called the "cleen rum," which by all means didn't appear too clean at all. The clean room was a dull place with yellowed walls and a fine coat of white ash on the floor. At the opposite end was a series of stone steps leading downwards. Above the stairs was the sign in olden script: "Incinerator." A map pinned to the wall expounded up the Incinerator's layout as well, which seemed to be designed like the ringed coils of a Muggle electric stove. Eight concentric rings, with a large cooling mechanism in the centre.  
A staler version of the chute smoke permeated through the air; Lupin kept his handkerchief on. The stoker who had opened the door for him sat down at a rickety card table across from his companion, a virtual twin with the exception of a scruffy auburn beard. A game of Exploding Snap was laid out between them. The custodian tipped her cap to each of them. "Phineas MacGregor – Finney. And Moseley O'Reilly - Mo. This is the nou laddie Douglas Ridley - Dougie."  
The ash-men raised their heads. "Aye there, Dougie," said one.  
"Aye," echoed the other.  
Leaning against the wall were immense, shining cylinder packs. A thin cord connected a rifle-like contraption to it. Lupin recognised them instantly.  
"Ice blasters?" he commented, gesturing to the strange equipment.  
"Aye," said Finney. "For the Ashwinders."  
"Aye," Mo parroted. "The Ashwinders."  
"They came oot oo the magical fires constantly," Lottie answered, "looking for a place tae lay their eggs."  
"So you freeze their eggs before they catch fire?" Lupin said, expressing his magical creature knowledge. Ashwinders were long, grey serpents with glowing red eyes. They formed from magical fires that burned for an extended period of time. If a magical fireplace was left unattended, the resulting Ashwinders could slither out and lay their eggs in the most flammable place they could find. These eggs could then burst out into flames in a matter of minutes and create a conflagration within the hour. These creatures were highly dangerous; Lupin wondered why the Ministry allowed Squibs with simple Ice Blasters to control them. Even capable wizards had trouble dealing with Ashwinders.  
"Do you sell the eggs after?" he added.  
"Nah." Finney answered. "We give 'em tae the Office for Magical Craitur Bi-Pruducts oop in the Zookeeper's Lunge. But we git 5 Knuts per egg. Not too shabby."  
Mo nodded. "Not shabby a-tall."  
A stubby finger pointed to a burlap sack filled with frozen Ashwinder eggs. A fine cool mist rose up from the sack.  
"Aye. Twenty-five eggs tonicht," said Finney proudly.  
Twenty-five eggs at 5 Knuts each? Lupin could smell a swindle going on. Ashwinder eggs were the most costly potion items on the market. To have the Ministry employ these disadvantaged folk in the most dangerous job possible, then give them almost nothing in exchange for their most expensive items they scavenge, was completely unfair.  
Lottie was aware of this too. "He should get a hundred times the amount he does," she whispered fiercely to Lupin as they left. "Finney got five liddin anes at hame. God knoos he needs the money."  
"Do you think he knows that?"  
"Aye. But ye can't tawk bac tae the Big Anes now, can ye?"  
Out in the lift shaft, Lupin saw the bin was empty. With a snap of his fingers, it tipped back onto all four wheels. "Lurnin' fast," Lottie said approvingly.  
Shutting the chute cover closed, Lupin noticed an inscription hacked into the rusted metal. He backed away, adjusted his glasses (a Douglas move he remembered), and read the inscription to himself.

ABANDON ALL HOPE,  
YE WHO WORK HERE.

He stared at the inscription for a long while wearing a slightly quizzical expression, until Lottie noticed. She glanced at the words mildly. "Same stoker thoot t'was fitting." The head custodian paused before adding lively, "Supposedly he was drunk when he wrote that."

Chapter 11

Working at the Edinburgh branch of the Ministry of Magic enlightened Lupin about many unseen aspects of the Ministry that he had never contemplated before. For instance, scattered about the entire government facility, there were no less than 42 lavatories: 21 for each respective gender. In the men's toilet, there were three urinals and two bowls; in the female version, there were only three bowls.

Therefore, in total there were 105 toilets and 63 urinals. Lupin knew this tally because he had to clean every single one. By hand.

"I'm not takin' advantage of ye jus akis yu're the new laddie," Lottie explained. Right then they were both in the men's toilet at the Stakeout Place, close to the public law offices. Lupin was on his knees scrubbing away with a brush and a bottle of _Bundimun's Smell-be-Gone All-Purpose Washroom Cleaner_, while Lottie was mopping up the tiles.

"It's jus' the chain oo command, ye see?" she said with a very important air. "I had tae clean the crappers oot wuns tae."

"Aye," Lupin muttered as he swished the brush around the shallow bowl and up along the sides. He didn't mind the work, actually, other than the smell that aggravated his keen nose.

Lupin was used to all kinds of toil in both the Muggle and wizarding world. He had at one point in time been a dishwasher at Hog's Head, an outdoor waiter, a London cabbie, a private boggart exterminator (charging three sickles less than the RMC's Spirit Division), and, for one lucky year, a tutor for Albus Dumbledore's great-nephews. In fact, this last experience had played a factor in landing Lupin the DADA job at Hogwarts.

Lottie was turning circles as she mopped. The handle rose two heads above her, but she managed well enough. "I've got a theory aboot crappers," she suddenly said. "Wanna hear it?"

She gave Lupin precisely two seconds before going on. "There are such things as self-cleaning crappers – the SC Triple-Plus Toilet, to be exact. Minister Fudge himself has a solid gold SC Triple-Plus in London. But they're ain't a single one here. With aa the fancy-smancy Muggle imports they're getting here, ye'd think tha' Big Anes might be able to squeeze in a few new crappers. Eh?" She must expect a response of some sort.

"Aye," he commented. He moved to the final urinal and poured in the blue cleaning solution. The liquid bubbled and changed several different colours before foaming up. He put his brush to the suds and whisked it about.

"But they dun't. Ye knoo why?" Lottie asked. "Akis eef they did, it would cut doun our workload by fortee-five percent. Less work means less custodians. But ye can't have Squibs roaming the street wi nothing tae stand on. So the Big Anes try an' increase the need for janitors by making us dae more grunt work. Ain't tha' obvious?" She gave the floor a vicious sweep and shoved the mop back into the bucket. "I'm dun here. Ready?"

Lupin lingered on his knees for a bit longer, thinking about what she had said. Then, he got up hastily, taking off his gloves. "Aye."

Lottie waddled over and stared at the row he had cleaned critically. Approaching the last one he had touched, she leaned over and sniffed sharply like a bloodhound on the scent.

"Hmmm, lemon freshness." She tucked a mouse-brown lock behind one ear as she looked at the white shine. "Hey, I can see my face in it!"

Straightening up, she gave Lupin's shoulder a whack. "That'll do, Dougie. That'll do. Let's tak a midnight tea, might we?"

He was thankful the task was done. By then, his knees had begun to ache horribly from getting up and down off the floor. Together, they gathered up the cleaning supplies and exited the lavatory. The cleaning caddy was already set to go and they were halfway towards the elevator shaft when Lottie suddenly halted.

"Did ye hear tha'?" Lupin stopped.

He thought he did hear something, very distant, but didn't think about it.

"What?" A very high _shhhhhhhh_ sound came, like the final descent of a small pool of water funnelling down a hole.

"Somebody used it." She paused stiffly, as if waiting for the full effect of her words to sink into Lupin's understanding. "Somebody. Used. It."

"The toilet?" Lupin said blankly.

"Somebody used it!" Lottie turned the caddie around so quickly the wheels squeaked and zoomed back towards the men's lavatory. Lupin, puzzled, followed. Who was still at the Stakeout floor at this time of night?

Lottie was back at the men's toilet, taking out the cleaner and the brush. She stalked to the two stalls at the far wall. Sticking her head into one, she sniffed and reared back. "Tha' one!"

"So?" Lupin found the brush and bottled being pushed into his hands again.

"Hurry oop!" Lottie pushed him into a stall. But they had just been cleaned. He gave Lottie a questioning look. Her reply flew by in a whirl of Scots, lost to him.

"Dinnae ye knoo tha' wunst a toilet is flushed, it sends up a spout oo microscopic droplets oo contaminated water in a six foot radius in aa directions?" Lottie exclaimed. "An' in a twelve-hour time period, those microscopic bits oo tainted water could spread an' infect the entire facility?" She made quite a large deal out of the matter.

Lupin was about to point out that these toilets were going to be used anyway in less than twelve hours, and so were always in a state of perpetual microscopic contamination, but kept his mouth shut. After all, he was only five hours into his new job; he shouldn't complain.

What he didn't realise was that Lottie was going to make him do the entire lavatory twice over. She became a house elf on the edge; anything he did suddenly didn't come up to par in Lottie's mind as she hopped about behind his shoulders. By the time he got back up from his knees, he could feel the little imprints of tile etched into his skin. "Good enough?" he asked, trying not to sound too annoyed. Lottie's hyper state lessened.

"Aye," she said, wiping her brow as if she had been the one working for the last twenty-five minutes.

"Let's go." He pushed up his glasses up the bridge of his nose and adjusted his hat roughly, trying not to come off as bitter.

On their way out, Lottie was pushing the cleaning caddy in front of her, and Lupin had pursed his lips to keep from snapping. The shadow of another man caught Lupin's attention, and he looked up again, quickly, just in time to see a straw-haired man stomping past, clenching something in his fist. "I am stronger than you; I am stronger than you…"

Lupin took a double-take to see the figure slip into the Stakeout cubicle area and disappear. A government worker still here at midnight? He shook his head and let the little incident pass him by.

"What if someone decides to use the toilet again before the Ministry opens?" he said gruffly.

"Then, ye bitter get tha' scrub brush at hand."  
But no one else used the men's toilet on the Stakeout Place again that night, much to Lupin's relief. They got their midnight tea at the Ministry's own cafeteria, open twenty-hours. Lottie waved a hand at the fellow at the chipper. "Ane supper, twa bridies, an' a cup oo tea eef ye please," she called to the boy behind the counter. "An' dinnae be stingee ona chips."

Lupin watched as the boy quickly tossed a few pieces of deep-fried fish into small basket and heaped them with fried chips. Taking a salt shaker, he sprinkled it all over the platter and added a splash of vinegar. A couple of meat-and-tattie pasties were selected piping hot from a warming tray, wrapped them in tissue paper, and tossed into the basket was well. The whole lot was then put in a paper bag and folded up with a page from the _Daily Prophet_. The chipper boy then took a cup and filled it to the brim with steaming dark tea and threw in some spoonfuls of sugar and cream. All this was done in less than a minute. Pretty admirable speed record.

"Here ye go," the boy said. Lottie took out a pitifully limp coin purse and carefully extracted the exact payment, which she dropped into the boy's outstretched hand.

"Ye going tae order nae, Dougie?"

"No, no, I'll be all right," Lupin said quickly. During the day, he had dressed in sharp white dress clothes, dark pants and bow tie and went up to one of the classy outdoor restaurants in Edinburgh's Muggle centre. He had pretended to be a busboy for one of the outdoor tables. This way, he had purloined a few rolls, some traces of steak, and fifteen pounds of tip money before one of the real waiters spotted him. Having four Muggles chasing him had certainly increased his sprinting skills. Nevertheless, he had this meagre but hard-earned supper at the tenement. Lupin planned to stretch the tip money out until he received his first paycheque from the Ministry. The smells from the newspaper-wrapped bag, however, were quite tempting.

"I'm not hungry," he said, his mouth watering. "I'm dieting, anyways." She laughed.

"Hey, I'm the ane who needs a diet arund here," she took out the bridies from her package and shoved them toward Lupin. "Eat oop."

Lupin protested. "Nah, I cannot take this."

"Weel, I'm not having it." Lottie placed the pasties on the counter, before spotting someone sitting in a lone corner. "Hey, ye!" she called, walking away.

Lupin glanced at the package on the counter. She had paid for it, and at least he wasn't going to leave it there. He grabbed them and followed.

The head janitor was sitting next to a sour-looking man brooding over his cup of tea. "Dougie, this here's Ralph Conner from the Owlry. She clapped her hand upon Ralph's shoulder. "Ralph, say hallo for us."

He glowered into his cup.

"Don't. Touch. Me." Lottie shook his shoulder playfully.

"That-a-boy, Ralph. He jus' gets a bit grumpy when he hasn't finished his wee strupach," she said to Lupin in a loud whisper. Ralph slowly turned his head towards her and narrowed his eyes.

"I'm needing the cleaner for the droppings," he said through gritted teeth.

"And that ye shall get!" Lottie sprang up to her feet. Lupin figured Ralph might have done something terrible if she hadn't jumped away in time. "I'll meet ye there after!"

They made their way back to the Custodial Services Office to eat. Lottie tucked herself into her swivel chair and unwrapped the newspaper from her meal. "Hey, there's same more news aboot tha' werewolf character," she said, glancing at the oil-stained sheet. Lupin lifted his head, his heart giving an unaccustomed jump.

"Really?" he asked mildly. "What about?" Her eyes scanned the paper.

"Hey, he might be a friend to tha' Sirius Black!" she said. "Weel, wha' da ye knoo?"

"Can I see it?"

"Wait a moment," Lottie became deeply interested in the paper. "They ev'n have a picture oo him. Lookee here." She showed him.

Lupin stared.

It was certainly a recent photograph. The photo consisted of a shadowy figure (presumably him) leaning down over a thick tome. Lupin then recalled the press coming to take a shot of him for an article about the rumoured "Curse of the DADA Job at Hogwarts," based on the stream of changing DADA professors for the past couple years. It had been printed out during the beginning of the autumn before last. Lupin had been in his office at the time, and remembered specifically that he hadn't wanted the picture taken at all.

Unfortunately, they must have snuck one in, and it was being reused here.

His duplicate was slowly turning the pages of the book. Noticeably enough, he donned his reading glasses. The twin then raised his head and looked out at him. Recognizing himself, the printed figure gave a nod in Lupin's direction. Lupin subtly put a finger to his lips, and his miniature self instantly understood, raising the book up in front of his face.

Lottie caught that motion. "Whatcha doin'?" She took a second look at the article. His picture self raised the book higher, so that his face was entirely covered. She stared at the photograph for a long while, then back at Lupin. An odd gleam came to her eye.

"Hey," she drawled, both her eyes upon Lupin, "ye look awfully familiar."

Lupin had his head down, absorbed in unwrapping the pasties he held. Using a curious tone, he questioned, "Whom do you think I look like?"

Should he run or subdue her? This place had too many obstacles in case of a struggle, and more likely, she would find something in this heap to contain him. But if he got up to make a dash for it, she'd have security called up to cut him off. He couldn't handle security, not without his wand. God, if only he had it. Maybe if he acted now while she was off guard he could knock her out and-

"I dunno." Her eyes widened. "Oh, Holy Mither oo God!" she gasped.

The coat rack. He bolted toward the door.

"Aidan Lynch!" Lottie exclaimed.

He was halfway out the office when he froze. She slipped down from her chair and glanced up at Lupin, taking him by the forearms. "Ye look exactly like him!"

"Aidan Lynch?" Lupin echoed, feeling both relieved and flustered. He didn't really want to hurt the poor woman. Yet if push came to shove, he would have taken the coat rack and hit her in the head.

"The star player from the Irish National Quidditch Team!" Lottie laughed. "Why had I not seen it afore? Tak oof the spectacles, give ye a flying broom…"

Lupin managed a small chuckle as his adrenaline level receded. "So you see it too?" he said.

"Most definitely."

"Thought you might. Sometimes when I walk down Diagon Alley, frantic fans wanting autographs mob me. I used to get free drinks at the Three Broomsticks by saying I was his brother." He casually sat back down in his chair and took a quick whiff of his wrist. It must be the Confundus Cologne's work.

"I suppose so." Lottie scratched her head. "Why were ye so jumpy all of a sudden?" she inquired.

"I'm not fond of exclamations like that," he replied simply. "Fight or flight response. Especially when those Lynch fans go after you." Offering up an embarrassed smile, he tossed his shoulders and bit into a bridie.

Just one close call out of many in the weeks to come.

End of Part 3.


	4. Lupin vs. Ridley

**Summary:** A investigation in splitting personalities, poisonous Ashwinders, and life-threatening janitorial duties, a.k.a the life of Lupin through the mask of a harmless Squib.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Also, Lupin's "Choose Life" speech in Chapter 16 is my tip of the hat to Ewan McGregor's character in Trainspotting. grins  
**Author notes:** Big thanks to everyone who helped for this part and along the way: Don, SofieElizabeth, and Liz for editing; Rage Point, Gileonnen, JK, and all the other wolves at the Werewolf Registry for their advice and support; a shout out to everyone who reviewed for their kind words, and of course, my soundboard, friend, and fellow mental patient PikaCheeka.

Revised: May 2005, for grammar and formatting.

WOLF BY EARS

Part Four: Lupin vs. Ridley

By D.M.P.

An identity is only questioned when menaced, as when the mighty begin to fall, or when the wretched begin to rise, or when the stranger enters the gates, never, thereafter, to be a stranger… Identity would seem to be the garment with which one covers the nakedness of the self: in which case, it is best that the garment be loose, a little like the robes of the desert, through which one's nakedness can always be felt, and, sometimes, discerned. This trust in one's nakedness is all that gives one the power to change one's robes.

James Baldwin, "The Devil Finds Work."

Sin gives an inclination to sin; it engenders vice by the repetition of the same acts. This results in perverse inclinations, which cloud conscience and corrupt the concrete judgment of good and evil. Thus sin tends to reproduce itself and reinforce itself…

Para. 1865. _Catechism of the Catholic Church._

Chapter 12

Janitorial duty stunk.

Lupin had some idea about the monotony of the job, but the idea only became clearer with each passing night. After the second week, Lupin had to drill himself to not fall asleep at the mop. However, he liked to think of his time at the Ministry as a training exercise. It wasn't Remus Lupin who was stuck at a dead-end career cleaning toilets and scrubbing down the entrance lobby. It wasn't Remus Lupin who sat up to his knees in the sponges and buckets of the Custodial Services Office, laughing in false joy at the series of syndicated re-runs that flickered on the beat-up telly. It wasn't Remus Lupin who had to listen to Lottie Gordon chatter aimlessly about trivial topics such as the twenty-one uses of goat's cheese as a stain remover. That was Douglas Ridley.

Boy, did Douglas lead a crummy life.

As the days and the weeks slipped by, Lupin became more and more accustomed to being Douglas Ridley. Sometimes it had been very difficult to keep his real self from showing, yet soon enough, Lupin had come to grips with himself. Or rather, with someone else.

In the meantime, while Douglas had worked, Lupin spent days occupying the cramped and dingy recesses of his tenement, plotting out his plan of action in thorough detail. During the first few nights, he had made several mental notes about the security and staffing at the Ministry. Lottie had given him a map as promised, and he charted out a course of action. What he needed to do was break into the management floor of the Registry and go to the database files in the Werewolf Services Office. Mary should have a file there. If not, she should be listed in the Muggle Relations Office up on the third floor.

The only problem was that Lupin had never stepped past the Registry's receptionist room. That was, he had discovered, the only area that custodians were designated to clean. Lottie told him that another shift usually covered the place during the day. Lupin cursed himself for his ill luck. He would have to find a way to break into the Registry himself.

Meanwhile, he had some assurance that his work would go unnoticed by the rest of the Ministry. No one would have any reason to seek out a scruffy custodian working the night shift.

"You there."

The security guard stopped Lupin just as he stepped into the employee's entrance. "May I have a word with you?"

Lupin froze and pointed to himself. The guard gave a stiff nod and took his arm. The two entered a small, unnoticeable room labelled "Security."

"I work here," he said immediately, pulling out his employee ID card.

"I know," the guard said gruffly, pulling him off to the side. "Listen-" he glanced at his uniform, "Douglas, you're the new fellow."

"I started only a few weeks ago."

"Yes, yes…" the guard coughed. "Well, I've been keeping an eye on you."

"And?"

"There's something I'd like to ask."

Something to ask Lupin? Had he spoken with the Being Resources Director? "Go on," Lupin said calmly.

"It's… it's a matter of great concern you see…" the guard hedged. "And I'm sure you'd understand… A little favour, you see…"

"What kind of favour?" Lupin inquired, trying to keep the suspicion out of his voice.

"Well…" the guard scratched under his cap nervously, "my son's birthday is next week and… well, I took him to see the World Cup last summer and he's absolutely mad about that Lynch fellow. So, I, um, told him I would try and get his autograph as a special present."

"But I'm not Aidan Lynch."

"Oh, I know but you do resemble him enough. Please, Douglas, just one picture."

Lupin was sure the Confundus Cologne was only illusionary magic; its effects weren't transferable to photographs. "I can't," he apologized. "It's not my thing to go about impersonating other people."

"My son's going to be nine years old," the guard pleaded. "You can't disappoint a nine-year old boy on his birthday!"

Still, Lupin remained adamant. "Birthday or not, I don't do pictures. Honestly, I'm not photogenic at all."

"Nonsense." The security guard held his hat in his hands. "I'm here every night. I never see him anymore. Please, I'm begging here," he said, lowering his balding head, "I'll do anything."

Lupin arched his eyebrow. "Anything?"

"I just don't want to break my promise."

"We all have promises to keep, don't we?" Lupin mused, suddenly feeling very charitable. "Um, look here Mr.-"

"Call me Wilbur."

"Of course, Wilbur, it wouldn't be too much trouble then. I'll only ask for a couple conditions."

Wilbur was beside himself with joy. "Bless you!" he exclaimed, pumping Lupin's hand. "Nathan will be thrilled!"

"First, let me take the picture at my home," Lupin advised. "To be sure it comes out right. You don't want your Nathan to find anything wrong with it."

"Common sense," Wilbur agreed.

"Second, I know Lottie's having some trouble with copying quill fumes coming from the Zookeeper's Lounge. Employees have been complaining about headaches, cramps, nausea – sick building syndrome, you know. She wanted to take a look, while she had time, but the doors are magicked to only open at certain hours. It would be a great help if-"

Wilbur picked up quickly. Lupin wondered if he even needed to make up the story. "The dragon collar, eh?" He scratched his chin. "They're pretty tight with policy up there, but I'll see what I can do tonight." Wilbur punched Lupin in the shoulder with a gleeful laugh. "I'll get the camera."

When he got to the Custodial Services Office, Lupin found Loretta dragging out the trolley. "Yu're late," she huffed, pulling the cart up.

"I got sidetracked," Lupin said apologetically.

"Jus' for tha', yu're coverin' the spill ov'r in the Referee's Lockar Rum." She handed him a bucket and mop.

Lupin nodded. It wasn't unusual for the Department of Magical Games and Sports to still be active after regular hours. Since the Triwizard Tournament, the Referees (as dubbed by Lottie) had been regulating the ways and means of every operation. They hadn't been so secret about the events either, or perhaps they just hadn't cared if Lupin was around when they discussed them. Already after cleaning up a few messes down there, Lupin had discovered what the Second Task of the Tournament was. Such stuff was water cooler conversation.

With a casual hop, he jumped into the empty elevator shaft with his mop and bucket. "Up!" he shouted and immediately fell three stories. Bugger, he forgot!

"Oop!" he shouted again and bounced back up.

The lifts, he had realized, were Scottish to the core.

Lupin arrived at the Referee's Locker Room on the 37th floor. He was about to knock on the door when someone interrupted him.

"Nice to see you again, Mr. Ridley."

"Mr. Burtman." Lupin gave a quick smile to cover his surprise.

The Being Resources Director gave Lupin's hand a hearty shake. His tail flicked out behind him. "How are you keeping?"

"Rather well, thankee." Taking a step toward the door, he added politely, "I'm sorry, but I have a spill to cover."

"Well, I only wanted a brief word. You're enjoying your new job?"

Mr. Burtman, Lupin noticed, had a particular way of tilting his head to the side when he spoke. It made one think of a dead man hanging from a noose.

Lupin tightened his hold on the mop handle. "Certainly. I have to thank you again for hiring me." He let out a jovial laugh. "I dunno where I'd be without this."

Mr. Burtman grinned. "I know a good soul when I see one," he replied. Lupin slid another step toward the door.

"I really must be going," he said quickly.

"If you must," Mr. Burtman perpetual smile broadened. "Remember, if you ever need me, only knock at my door."

"I will." Lupin tipped his cap to him. "Have a good night, Mr. Burtman."

"Same to you."

For some reason, Lupin did not move again until Mr. Burtman rose back up the shaft and out of sight. Something bothered Lupin about him. True, his appearance was unsettling, but Lupin had never liked to consider himself a wolf who judged on appearances. There was something else that nagged the back of his mind…

Lupin rapped politely on the door. "Custodial Services."

A distracted secretary answered. She didn't even glance at him, but, instead, pointed vaguely over her shoulder. Lupin was used to such cold attitudes. He walked past her into the office.

Tonight everything was winding down. Lupin walked down the hall to the break room and saw a puddle of spilled coffee. Other employees walked discreetly around it.

The repetitive thought came to his mind: he didn't have to clean this up. One wave of a wand and the spill would mop itself. But, nevertheless, a janitor had to be called down to mop it up. That was his job.

Lupin took care of it in a few minutes and made his exit. Walking aisles fascinated him during the early part of the shift. It had been how others reacted that initially drew his attention – or rather, how they seemed not to. Lupin took a step into the aisle and walked briskly down, tugging the suds bucket behind him. People moved aside, clerks halted to let him pass. Workers were suddenly preoccupied with this task at hand. It was both amazing and bothersome. When he was Remus Lupin, strangers didn't make way to avoid him.

That night was slower than usual. Lupin was by himself, vacuuming the Stakeout ("I'm nut takin' advantage oo ye," Lottie explained, "But seniority counts for sumthin'.") when he smelled it. Smoke.

Lupin raised his head in mild alarm and unhooked a pocket light from the cleaning caddy. Flicking it on, he scanned the ceiling. A thin grey trail wafted from three isles down. He took a bucket and headed toward the source.

Soon a high crackle filled the air; he must be getting close. Lupin turned the corner into the next cubicle and found it.

A man was slumped forward on top of his cluttered desk, snoring. His lamp was still on but what glowed brighter was the small fire creeping up his sleeve.

"Wake up!" Lupin shouted, splashing the soapy contents of the bucket on the desk.

The man got splashed; he snapped awake. "What the-" He rubbed his eyes then smelled the smoke. "Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed, blinking.

Lupin pushed him out of the way. "Pardon!" Quickly, he emptied the bucket on the lingering flames on the desk.

"Argh!" The other fellow was blinking furiously now and slapping several wet papers on the ashes. "Oh, by the crud of St. Anthony!" he muttered.

Lupin helped and together they killed the rest of the smouldering embers. "Are you all right, sir?" he asked.

"Aw, hell!" the man moaned. He looked at the front of his suit, now dripping, and threw a crumpled wad of paper to the ground. "Look at this!" Grabbing another pile of paper, he angrily wiped the suds off his clothing. "Oh dear sweet mother of- holy shit!" He stared at the sheets in his hand. "My study guide!"

"Um, sir, a towel-" Lupin handed him a clean rag from his belt as more expletives flooded his ears.

"Aw, fuck, fuck, fuck," the man fumed between clenched teeth.

Ah, the vulgarity of youth.

He yanked the towel from Lupin's hand and patted down the soaked parchment, smearing the ink. "Fuck!" He took out his wand and made a quick, downward swoop. The papers around them rose in the air and began wringing out themselves. Lupin couldn't help but stare; it had been so long since he had been able to do such things.

"What time is it?" the man demanded as the papers began to steam and dry magically.

Lupin supplied, "Almost two in the morning."

"Damn!" He moaned aloud again then grabbed the floating papers. "Just peachy!" He shuffled the papers and stuffed them into his briefcase. Cramming the rest of the desktop into it as well, he muttered in frustration, "I can't believe it…"

Lupin eyed the desk, trying to see what had started the fire. A thin, crumpled stub lay on the desk. He picked it up. "Have you been smoking?"

He did a double-check at the man and realized this was the same exact fellow he had seen his first night, apparently talking to his cigarette.

"Hell yes!" the man raged. His clothes were now dry, but looked uncomfortably stiff from the soap. He grabbed the cigarette stub and threw it in the wastebasket. "Stupid two-week program. Cold turkey my ass!"

Lupin suggested. "Maybe you should calm down a bit-"

"Calm down? Calm down?" A sarcastic laugh came from him. "In six hours I have a bar exam to take – which, I might add, I've failed _four times_ before – I've been studying here for the last three days, the last food in me was a week-old bag of cheese doodles, the rest of my notes have been wrecked beyond repair, my master barrister's going to _kill me_ when he finds out the damage or that I'm even here after hours, and a janitor tells me to calm down!"

"Maybe you'd prefer a drink."

The man put his head in his hands and collapsed in his chair. He muttered, "Third from the top."

Lupin opened the drawer and took out a small whisky bottle. He looked at it with a raised eyebrow, but didn't comment. Instead, he handed it over to the frazzled young man.

"Thanks." He unscrewed the top and took a swing. "Want some?"

"No thank you." Lupin leaned against the cubicle panel. "So you're trying for the bar tomorrow? If you don't mind the advice, why don't you get some sleep?"

"Sleep? Sleep's the last thing I need." The man gave a sideways glance, then offered over his hand. "Samuel Harper."

"Douglas Ridley." They shook.

Harper restored his composure immensely with the whisky. When his nerves weren't on end, he didn't appear too bad. Lupin noticed immediately that Harper was not a native; in fact, by his accent it sounded as if he came from England. Women would call Harper adorable, but never handsome; he was pleasant-looking in a hapless, bumbling way, with hair like thatched straw and eyes like a puppy dog – that is, dark, blank, and slightly dilated. But perhaps the latter's appearance was because of his sleep-deprived state.

"Seriously, my outburst was completely inappropriate," he apologised. "I'm just not up to par right now."

"Few people are at this hour." Lupin didn't want to intrude, but couldn't help asking, "Maybe you should reconsider your study strategy."

"I did," Harper put his elbows on his knees and gave another tip of the bottle. "I've done everything: cramming, relaxing, all-nighters, flashcards, mental health days, the whole bit. Nothing works. You see, my mind freezes every time. Hand me the parchment and then-" he snapped his finger, "-everything out the window. Can't recall a bloody thing."

"Nervousness is natural," Lupin said. "The problem seems to be that you can't relax and concentrate."

"I do concentrate!" Harper protested, taking a gulp. "It just all comes ramming at the front of my brain at the same time, and I can't seem to sort everything out." He stared at his bottle in dejection. "Maybe I'm not cut out for this. I could always go back to Chelmsford. I can just see it now: 'Hi Mum, I can't become a barrister because I keep failing the goddamn test. Go me!' "

"Then what does your master barrister think?"

Harper snorted, "Mr. Thomson? He thinks I should stick with being his assistant and nothing else! Gave up on me after the third time. Says I haven't got the charm." His laugh hit an especially low note on the pessimist's scale.

Lupin pitied him. He hated apprenticeship for specifically this reason. If a student didn't have a good mentor, he'd never succeed.

The wizarding world was, in some aspects, much more medieval than he liked. For one thing, the United Kingdom had a divided legal system, split up between the individual nations. Second, there was no advanced schooling for those out of primary magical institutions. There were some rumours about the setup of a wizard university, but that was still up in the air. Meanwhile, if one wanted to go into a professional field, one had to set up a pupilage with another person of that trade. Apprenticeships to masters were rare, for they usually didn't have the time to train another, and so normally only second-raters in need of free help would take people under their wings. Poor Harper was another lost soul trapped in a bad deal.

"I'm not an expert on exams, but here's a tip…" Lupin fished around in his pockets then removed a small piece of gum. Lottie chewed by the fistful and didn't mind sharing. "Here."

"What?" Harper picked up the stick. "The point being?"

"When I was younger, I always froze up on tests too," Lupin explained. "But I found a way around it. Instead of stressing over the test, I would focus on something else like chewing gum. I'm not sure how it works, but it keeps your mind in constant gear."

"Gum?"

"That and proper breathing."

"Breathing?"

"Try after me. Breath in." Lupin inhaled. "Breath out." He exhaled.

"You mean, like I do naturally?" Harper drawled, swinging the bottle's neck loosely from one hand.

Lupin sighed. "Would you like my help or not?"

"Okay. I'm breathing in." Harper inhaled loudly. "And I'm breathing out," he said, doing so.

"Close your eyes."

Lupin took this opportunity to take the bottle away from the barrister's apprentice. Being tired during the bar exam was one thing. Having a hangover was another.

"Now imagine a waterfall running down your shoulders."

Harper opened an eyelid. "What are you trying to pull?"

"You don't have to do it if you don't want to."

"Fine." Lupin thought Harper meant he wasn't doing it, but then he said, "Okay, I'm mentally drenched. Now what?"

"Roll your shoulders back. Feel the water now, a cool, gentle stream. The water is going down your back. Relax those muscles. Feel the water flowing, cool and gentle, down your back. Breathe in, breathe out. Slowly. The water's down your legs. Relax them. Feel the water carrying your tension away…"

It was an old trick he had picked up from a hippie when he was younger and it worked every time. Lupin kept repeating the same basic lines over and over until he saw Harper slump in his chair. God, he had just put him to sleep.

"Mr. Harper?" Lupin called.

A light snore was heard.

"Mr. Harper?" Lupin shook his shoulder.

"Wha- oh!" Harper straightened up.

"How do you feel?"

"Tired as hell."

"Then it would be best for you to Disapparate home now, before you doze off again."

"Yeah, I guess that's the right idea." Harper got up, stretched his arms and picked up his wand from the desk.

"If you feel that your mind's going to freeze, take the gum, and think of the waterfall," Lupin advised. "That should get you relaxed and focused."

"Well, it's worth a shot anyway," Harper replied, slightly doubtful. He picked up his briefcase. "Oh, and thanks about that, um, fire thing."

"Now go home," Lupin repeated, giving a small smile. "Good luck on the exam."

"Thanks." Harper went on his way out to the lift shaft. He couldn't Disapparate while at the Ministry; there were spells prohibiting it.

Lupin watched him leave. He doubted about how well Harper would do, but perhaps the fifth time would be the charm.

Chapter 13

"Hoo. Hoo hoo..."

An owl soared through the shady rafters and settled down on one of the straw nests. The Owlery was a large rookery, filled with rows and rows of makeshift nests. Directly parallel to these were the uniform perches. Each was marked with a brass numbered plate. Out the window, various owls were thrown out like bags of garbage.

"Oop ye go."

"Hoo!"

Another owl launched into space.

Ralph Conner absentmindedly strapped on another letter.

"Oop ye go."

"Hoo!"

_Plop._

The last owl had been a bit over-excited during take-off. Ralph grimaced.

"Damn. This is the third uniform this month."

"Here ye go." Lottie offered up the Drop-Away Spray bottle to Ralph. She had a pair of rubber gloves on and was mucking out the nests with a small shovel.

The disgruntled Owlery worker snatched the bottle away and applied it profusely onto his stained robe. Between quick swipes with his handkerchief, he muttered, "I. Hate. My. Job."

"C'man," Lottie smirked. "The colour suits ye."

Ralph threw the soiled cloth at her. Lottie ducked.

Lupin mucked in her direction. "Quite the camaraderie the two of you have," he noted quietly to her.

"Aw, Ralph adores me," Lottie said cheerfully. "Doncha, Ralph?"

An entire owl nest knocked her in the back of her head. Lottie tumbled forward into a heap of dirty feathers and other unpleasant things.

Ralph innocently placed a clean pile of straw onto the empty shelf. "Ye missed ane."

Lottie plucked a sticky feather from her hair and groaned. "Dougie, hand me the spray bottle."

"I believe I'm not the one who has it," Lupin said nonchalantly. "Ralph?"

Ralph released another owl. "I might have misplaced it."

Lottie muttered something under her breath and scrambled up to her feet. While she went searching for the cleaner by herself, Lupin drew his attention away and stroked one of the owls on the head. It must be terrible to be a mail worker. However, the Owlery did have one advantage; it was built above ground. Lupin looked out the office window. Outside, the city line of Edinburgh glowed.

Should he send a letter off to Sirius about his whereabouts? Sirius would be deeply concerned about him; it had been awhile since he had left the mountains. He remembered the circumstances upon his departure and strangely enough, he felt his throat tighten.

However, Lupin was well aware of how perilous even a simple note could be if it were misdirected or found by someone else. Should he make an attempt anyway? If Sirius didn't receive any word from him, would he understand the reason why?

He glanced behind him to see that Lottie and Ralph were still talking. Quickly, he ripped a scrap of parchment from the stack and picked up a quill. Lupin bit his tongue for a moment, thinking about how he should address it. Certainly he couldn't say any names…

Hastily, he scribbled:

_Padfoot,_

_I'm all right. Take care._

_- Moony_

Lupin wrinkled his brow and scanned the note. How odd it felt, using their childhood names. It didn't feel right to Lupin for some reason. His fingers brushed the wet ink and smeared the parchment. Safety – yes, that's it, he couldn't risk sending a Ministry owl to the mountains, now could he?

Which was more important, Sirius's safety, or this simple message?

He tore the paper into bits and dropped them into the wastebasket.

Wilbur bumped into Lupin's table at midnight tea. "Don't tell anyone," he told him. Lupin felt a small key being tucked into his hand. "Only for tonight," he said.

"Show it at the door and you'll get in."

Lottie plunked down in the seat across from him. "Wha' was Wilbur oop tae?" she asked when the security guard departed.

"He only wanted to thank me," Lupin answered casually. "I'm going to obtain an autograph of Aidan Lynch for him."

"Really? Tha's sweet oo ye." She poured catsup over her chips.

Lupin excused himself early and said he'd be in the Office. Lottie, who had struck up another one-sided conversation with Ralph, suggested that he start organizing the mess. "Nut tha' I'm takin' advantage oo ye," she added, "but since yu'er doun thaur…"

When Lupin left, he didn't head down to the 47th floor, but instead went up to the Registry of Magical Creatures. The snapping dragon collar appeared to be inactive. Lupin approached warily. The chains stirred and the metal collar rose from its resting place on the threshold. It moved about as if it had eyes of its own. Surveying the area, the chain focused on him. Lupin raised the key, just like Wilbur had instructed him to do. The dragon collar recoiled, then settled back down, knowingly.

Lupin entered the Registry lobby and crossed it to the set of doors leading to the open floor. He turned the key into the lock and twisted it. However, unlike most keys, it wouldn't turn to the left. Lupin tried again but to no avail. Quite unexpectedly, the key shifted in his hand. It turned over to the right two notches and the latch snapped ajar.

_Whish!_

A bright light flooded the lobby from the crack in the door. Sounds of ringing phones and busy chatter were heard on the other side. Lupin was surprised. Was the Registry still active at midnight? He closed the door and locked it again. The sounds stopped. Silence.

How peculiar. These doors must be thicker than he thought, if he couldn't hear the hubbub from the lobby. Lupin stuck the key into the lock and automatically, it turned, but this time to the left.

_C r e a k…_

Lupin opened the door and saw a still span of empty cubicles. The ghost lights flickered. No one was here. Lupin took a step onto the deserted floor. What had happened? He checked his map. This was the right one. But where had all the people gone?

He decided to experiment. Stepping out into the lobby once more, Lupin plugged the key into the lock and turned it to the right. He swung open the door a bit and peeked through.

_Whish!_

Bright light blinded him as a clerical worker rushed past, carrying a handful of files. Workers filled his vision, all pre-occupied with something – talking on phones, using typewriters, fetching owls that flew in and out of the night sky through windows beyond his view. In the farthest wall, several holographic maps were flashing and beeping. A line of televisions was mounted on the wall, but from his position he couldn't tell what they were showing.

The truth dawned on Lupin. This wasn't the Registry. This was an entirely different department occupying the same space as the Registry. Amazing.

Someone was heading toward him at a swift pace. Lupin recognized the man's uniform, having been confronted with another donning it before. An Unspeakable!

Lupin shut the door and pressed himself against the wall. But the door didn't reopen. Had the Unspeakable left or did he just turned the corner? Tensely, Lupin counted the minutes, but no one exited. At least now he knew what floor it was. Lupin had discovered the location of the Department of Mysteries.

He was impressed by the magic it took to create such an arrangement: the Department of Mysteries co-existing on the same set of floors as the Registry. But, then again, what if the Department of Mysteries was spread out further than the Registry, encompassing all the floors? Lupin was tempted to find out, but reined in his curiosity. He didn't want to get caught in the act.

Yet maybe Lottie was right about Big Brother. It _was_ everywhere.

Had Wilbur been aware of this when he handed Lupin the key? Did the security guard think that Lupin wanted to break into Big Brother? And, was the man so easily swayed to let him do so?

No, this was all an accident. Or was it?

Lupin opened it again, forcefully turning the key to the left. The empty Registry floor reappeared once more. Lupin stepped in and took out his map. Werewolf Services… Twelve aisles down and fourteen up. Lupin moved swiftly, not because he was pressed for time, but because he couldn't help hearing the myriad of ghostly echoes of ringing phones, and hurried commands, and hundreds of typewriters and radios, as Big Brother pulsated all around him…

The Werewolf Services Office was unoccupied, like everything else. Lupin lowered himself down at eye-level with the doorknob and flicked on his pocket light. There was no keyhole.

Hmmm… that opened up a variety of options. There could be an invisible keyhole that would only show in the presence of the right key. A spell could have been cast to create a keyhole for use, or perhaps a secret code or charm was used to gain passage through.

Lupin mulled through his choices. If he had a wand, he could use an Indicator Spell to detect the magical aura around the door. Depending upon the type of aura it emitted, Lupin could narrow down what kind of magic should be used. Either that, or he could use basic spells upon this door to break the lock. A weak acid would cut through nicely, or if he cast a Dispersion Spell upon himself he could slip through the cracks and re-form in the room.

But for any of those to be possible, he needed access to magic.

Lupin didn't mind. He had time. Taking out a piece of paper, he scribbled down his thoughts about the door and the spells with the stub of a quill. While he wrote, he felt the key tugging from his robe pocket. Lupin ignored the sensation until it began to lean out. Automatically, he shoved it deeper into his pocket, yet it kept pushing forward. Immediately, with no way for him to stop it, the key jumped out. Lupin made a grab for it, but it flew like a dart straight toward the door.

_Pop!_

The key jammed itself into a hole that appeared just underneath the knob and turned two clicks to the right. Lupin grabbed the key and yanked it out. Then, the door swung open.

A receptionist desk was in the room with a secretary busily typing away at the front. She looked up. "Yes, sir?"

Lupin said the only thing he could think of. "Custodial Services."

"Mr. Delaney didn't request any cleaning service." The secretary chewed a huge wad of gum and talked around it like a cow with her cud. She blew a bubble. "Wait a moment, sir, I'll go double-check." She pressed the call button. "Mr. Dela-"

"Oh, I'm sorry, my mistake," Lupin interrupted quickly and slammed the door.

He leaned against the other side and stared at the key uncertainly. He wasn't going to let go of this now! He left the Registry and promptly returned the mischievous item to Security.

Wilbur had his eye on a set of monitor mirrors alongside the wall. "Fixed what you needed?" Wilbur asked offhandedly, his eyes never leaving the screens.

"Quite." Lupin handed it back to him. "Might I ask what sort of key this is?"

"The master key," Wilbur looked confused. "That's what you wanted, right?"

"Exactly," Lupin said. "I was caught a bit off-guard about a few things…"

The security guard chuckled. "Ah, you saw Big Brother, eh? Pay no mind, the key likes to play tricks on new fellows." At his word, the key slipped off the desk and bounced across the floor. "You little devil." Wilbur snatched it up and shut the key in his desk drawer. "I wouldn't worry," he said. "If you got into real trouble, you wouldn't be standing here to tell me."

Lupin came back to his tenement, weary-eyed. He plugged the basin and turned the hot water faucet. Contrary to the stereotype, he didn't truly get himself any dirtier working as a janitor than in any of the other jobs he had ever had. He never performed any tasks without wearing gloves, and Lottie always had a touch for cleanliness.

Nevertheless, he made a point to wash; the Confundus Cologne's stench made him feel like a mongrel.

Removing his uniform and throwing his other clothes off, Lupin then took a washcloth and a bar of soap out of his briefcase. There was a toilet available down the hall, but no bath. If he needed one, he would have to provide for himself. Lupin wet the washcloth and rubbed it against the soap until it frothed.

If he only had his wand he wouldn't have to go through this trouble; cleaning spells were as common knowledge as the alphabet. But he could adapt fairly easily to Muggle activities. Eventually, however, he'd have to find another wand. But how? He was a felon on the run; it wouldn't be surprising if the Registry had tabs on Ollivander's. If he could contact the goblins at Gringotts, then he could arrange for a banker to make a new purchase for him. After all, if it had worked for Sirius, it could work for him.

Lupin gave himself a quick, damp scrub. His fingers traced the old scar, dark as loam, on his left side. There was a hollow in his flesh that dipped shallowly from his last rib and stretched almost to his navel. An ancient shudder ran through him although he couldn't remember why. He could never remember any of it at all…

He quickly threw a loose sleeping robe over his still-wet body. By this time, he was seeing the back of his eyelids more than anything else. Without another thought, Lupin tumbled into bed and fell into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter 14

Douglas Ridley was a nice chap. He decided to go down to the Incinerator and befriend the two stokers, Phineas and Moseley. After all, the two stokers played a mean game of Gobstones. Oh, how nice of Douglas and Loretta to join them! Why, no it wouldn't be an intrusion if they spent midnight tea there. The group all sat at the rickety round table, warming their hands with mugs of coffee and analyzing a small pile of polished stones.

Lottie chewed on a toothpick. "Yer droop."

Mo skipped the Gobstone across the table. It bounced along one, two, three times over several others before reaching the other side. Finney gave a low whistle.

"Nice ane," Finney said as Mo gathered up the captured stones. "Dougie, yer go."

Lupin tossed the stone in his hand for a while, thinking. After a few moments, he threw the stone against the table. It ricocheted against the tabletop, hit the ceiling and bounced over two of the smaller stones. Then, it changed direction and started jumping over the remaining stones on the table before landing, neatly, in the centre of the table.

The other three exchanged glances. Finney blinked. "Whoa…" he said. "I've nev'r seen a move lac tha' afore."

"It's all in the wrist," Lupin said calmly, sweeping up the rest of the stones into a little pile. "I was a Gobstones champion when I was a kid."

In actuality, he had never even heard of the game until James showed him at Hogwarts, and even then, he had been the worst player out of the group. Still, Douglas Ridley seemed like a person who would be good at Gobstones, so Lupin had become good at Gobstones.

"How aboot another go at it?" Finney offered, as Mo began setting up the stones again.

"I'm game," Lottie threw in. But Lupin refused.

"Midnight tea's almost over," he told them. "We'd best get back to work."

"Nev'r seen ye tae be so enthusiastic aboot it," Lottie rolled her eyes.

"Richt then." Finney examined the throwing stone in his hand. "Ye'd have tae shew me how ye did it sumtime," he said. The Gobstone, annoyed at Finny's scrutiny, spat a stream of green-grey goo that caught him in the chin. "Argh. Bugger." Finny wiped his face, asking, "Ye'd came see us agin?"

"Sure." Lupin said in a friendly tone. He stood at the open doorway to the clean room and glanced casually at the pile of frozen Ashwinder eggs. "How about tomorrow?"

"Tha's great. See ye then."

Mo nodded in agreement.

"That I will," Lupin promised.

Later that shift, when the stokers were counting up the eggs for that night, Finney scratched his sooty neck. "We did have ten here, richt?"

Mo, in turn, scratched his beard.

Finny shook his head. "Nev'r mind. We must have miscounted or sumthin'. Wunnae be the furst time."

Dawn had come only an hour before when Lupin sat down comfortably in front of the wide mahogany desk. He had just cleaned himself off and dressed in normal Muggle robes, undisguised.

The desk was unadorned as well except for a velvet cloth and a shiny gold inkstand in the corner with a large white plume stuck in it. Usually, people who owned wide mahogany desks with red velvet runners and gold inkstands wielded vast amounts of power.

"Welcome to Gringotts Bank. How may I help you?"

The bank manager – a Mr. Guiderius Goldflincher, according to the title on the door – folded his gnarled claws pleasantly. Lupin knew that Gringotts was run by goblins, but never before had he encountered one of such ugliness. Goblins were horrible, misshapen creatures by nature, but this one was almost an exaggerated example of his species.

Lupin had travelled the world extensively and knew a dabbling of Muggle culture. To his knowledge, this goblin resembled a stunted, wizened sage that Muggles referred to as Yoda. More specifically, this goblin was Yoda after a bad encounter with a Boil Curse. Apparently, the Force was not with him.

"I would like to arrange a purchase from you."

"Ah." Guiderius Goldflincher recognised him, but didn't even bat an eye. "You're quite the familiar face as of late, aren't you? I believe you want the purchase to be anonymous then?"

"Isn't that Gringotts' specialty?"

"Oh yes," Guiderius affirmed. "We at Gringotts Bank stand by our beliefs. One thousand years of neutrality means one thousand years' worth of trust." His voice sounded like a deflating balloon.

"Yes. I wish to assess my account holdings."

"I see." The manager slipped out of his chair and waddled over to the file cabinet. "The letter L we have," he muttered to himself. "Let's see… Luhelster, Luke, Lumire … ah Lupin, Remus J." Drawing out a slim scroll from one of the drawers, he then returned to his desk and unfurled it.

He gave a brief glance at the bottom. "I'm not sure if you have enough in your account to make any purchases," he informed Lupin. "Unless you want a Chocolate Frog."

"How much is there exactly?" Lupin asked.

"About twenty Knuts. Including interest."

Lupin suspected as much. "Doesn't Gringotts carry a bartering option?"

"But of course. That is one of the many policies Gringotts Bank has made available to all of its customers. We at Gringotts Bank feel that wealth can be calculated in many ways, shapes and forms, and thus, the exchange of goods is a perfectly legitimate way of conducting business. What is it that you wish to barter with?"

"This." Lupin removed the stolen Ashwinder egg from his pocket and placed it on the table with a heavy _thunk_.

Guiderius stared casually at the egg. "Are you trying to impress me, Mr. Lupin?"

"Am I succeeding?"

"Barely."

"It's a frozen Ashwinder egg."

The goblin picked up the egg in his claws and tapped the cool surface with his gnarled finger. "Authentic, I see." He sniffed it. "I myself am not familiar with magical items, but I believe these are worth something?"

"About fifty Galleons."

"Now I'm impressed." Guiderius placed the egg back on the table. "What are you interested in purchasing then?"

"This." Lupin slipped him a piece of paper.

Guiderius picked it up. "An autographed photo of Aidan Lynch? A fan of Quidditch, hmm?"

"Sent to that address," Lupin enforced. The address was Wilbur's; Lupin hated being in debt to anyone.

"In two days…" The goblin scanned down further. "Eleven inches, oak…" He stared at the bag. "And this?"

"Hair," Lupin stated bluntly. "For the core."

"Is that how wizards do it?" the goblin mused. He analyzed the sample. "The short, coarse kind, I see?"

Lupin arched an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

"Wizards are wizards. Amusing." Guiderius winked at him. "Well, then, I could get you an estimate of the cost. If you wouldn't mind waiting here for a moment." Guiderius tucked the paper, bag and egg in his waistcoat pocket and left the room.

Wherever the goblin thought the hair came from Lupin didn't want to contemplate. It was actually a sample of his wolf fur. Lupin was taking a chance using his own wolf hair, gathered from old clothing. His original one had contained the hair of a werewolf in it – the last one executed in England in 1924. The Ministry had had the head chopped off and the body skinned and burned, in case he should come back as a damned wolf ghost. The hunter who killed the werewolf had mounted the head for his prize and, in a fit of generosity, had donated the pelt to Ollivander's for wand-making. Supposedly, wands made with a werewolf's hair were good for defence and transfiguration. Lupin had figured that hair was hair, and the magic in his should be still strong. Although wizards only channelled magic, a werewolf was part magic in itself.

Guiderius must have verified the worth of the Ashwinder egg, for he came back with a friendlier expression on his face. Friendliness did not suit his visage, however.

"I've made an estimate on the cost," he told Lupin.

"How much?"

"Five-hundred Galleons." Guiderius folded his hands on the desk again. "I'll be happy to arrange this purchase for you. I must add, however, that an additional Bartering Fee will be included," he explained briskly.

"A fee?" Lupin echoed mildly.

"Fifty percent," he replied readily.

"Fifty?"

"Fifty."

"Twenty."

"I can't bargain with policy, Mr. Lupin."

"The last time I looked up your policy, there wasn't a Bartering Fee. Twenty."

Guiderius frowned. "Forty-five."

"Twenty."

"Forty."

"Twenty."

"Thirty-five."

"Twenty."

The goblin arched a hairy eyebrow. "Don't you know how to bargain?"

"Yes I do," Lupin answered. "Twenty."

"Twenty-five," the goblin offered. "Or nothing."

"Isn't that against Gringotts policy?"

"The banking manager has every right to refuse a service if conditions cannot be met."

Lupin gave in. "Fine."

"Perfect. Now, then, the cost for a custom-made wand and autographed picture is 500 Galleons. An Ashwinder egg, minus the Bartering Fee…" The goblin's brow furrowed. "About… 13 eggs total would be needed to complete the trade."

"Are you rounding the total?" Lupin inquired in a tone that sounded a shade accusing.

"We have a standard Service Fee included." He smiled, which was rather frightening to see. He took out the frozen Ashwinder egg from his pocket and held it between his thumb and forefinger. "Might I, though, ask a question?"

"Depending upon the question, I might not answer."

"Well, I was only wondering why you're going through all of this trouble to obtain a wand. Certainly wizards seem quite helpless without then, but I myself have been very capable at living without one. Not that I have any personal interest in the matter," he added quickly. "We at Gringotts Bank have learned to respect the privacy of our clientele."

"Then if you do value your clientele's privacy, you won't make any further inquiries," Lupin said dryly.

"Whatever our clients have in mind is their own business, we are certain," the goblin agreed quickly. "Yet we at Gringotts Bank have to be assured that no messy consequences will result from our business transactions. Not that we would do anything of our own will against our customers, for I must re-enforce the fact that we at Gringotts strongly value our neutrality in all matters great and small."

"But I believe that you at Gringotts Bank realise that your current method of business transactions here may result in messy consequences if discovered by certain wizard authorities?" Lupin countered in a stiffer tone.

"That is a different matter entirely," Guiderius defended. "Activities such as these do not go against our policies whatsoever. Exchanging various items in lieu for gold is perfectly sound and reasonable. We at Gringotts Bank had a long history of bartering and material exchanges long before the Galleon became established as wizarding currency." The goblin pointed out, "However we practice our policies is decided upon by our board of directors in a fair manner."

"I believe we have a deal then?" Lupin asked.

"Quite." Guiderius offered his claw and they shook on it. "Remember," he said, "Gringotts gets 25 per egg."

"Keep the one I gave you as a start. I'll send an owl to your office," Lupin said, trying not to sound disgruntled at that part of the deal, "with the remaining eggs and a delivery address for the wand."

"When can Gringotts Bank expect the payment to arrive?"

"Soon. Give me one week." With that, he rose from his seat. "Good day, Mr. Goldflincher."

Chapter 15

One of them would have to go.

That was Lupin's reasoning. In order for him to acquire the eggs and get his wand as soon as possible, one of them would have to be removed. Douglas, being the kind lad he is, would volunteer to cover for any stoker who happened to be absent because of illness or injury. While lurking in the Incinerator, Lupin would have the opportunity to steal as many eggs as possible.

Unfortunately, both stokers seemed to be in perfect health, despite their working conditions. Yet that wasn't a worry. One of them would fall ill quite soon. How very sad.

Now, he wasn't doing a wicked thing, mind you, only a logical thing. He had to acquire a wand; hence, he had to acquire money; hence, he had to acquire Ashwinder eggs. And one of these men stood in his way.

Lupin's attitude had drastically changed from that of the poor wolf who had cared for a little girl months before. But his reasoning hadn't changed at all. Lupin was a pragmatic through and through. He couldn't think of any way of getting around this, really. He certainly didn't want to do something like this. Yet he wasn't going to dawdle either, and those stokers were hindering his step.

Well, that's what he told his mirror's reflection. He wasn't stealing, he wasn't lying, and he wasn't deceiving anyone. All those things he did were relatively insignificant, anyhow. He had made a promise after all – a promise to Something he wasn't sure he believed in anymore – so he couldn't be doing those things again. That would be hypocritical of him, wouldn't it? And by all means, Remus Lupin _knew_ he wasn't a hypocrite! No, not anymore…

He was only getting by.

That was what Lupin thought as he slipped a dozen laxatives and crushed aspirins into the stokers' coffee the very next night.

Finney succumbed first. Too bad – Lupin had hoped for Mo to cave in. It was awful to have a man with five children suddenly take ill. But things couldn't be helped once they were done.

"Are ye alright?" Lottie exclaimed, when Finney slumped forward, face contorted in pain.

"Dunno," Finney muttered. "Jus' aa oo a sudden-" He let out another moan.

"Here. Lie doun fer a sec." Lottie jumped out of her seat and hooked her arms under Finney's. Mo rushed to a cabinet on the side of the room and took out several blankets to put on the ground. Lupin sat there, rolling the Gobstone in his hand, before deciding to come and help Lottie.

Lupin asked, sounding concerned, "Where does it hurt?"

Finney's eyes rolled upward. "Mi stomach--" His face paled. Lupin read the sign and grabbed a small metal pail from the cabinet for him to vomit in.

Lottie turned away. "Oh, Finney," she said. She picked up his coffee mug and sniffed at it. A worried look crossed her face.

"Anything wrong?" Lupin inquired.

"Dunno," Lottie took a sip. "A bit tae bitter tae be cricket."

"Gimme it." Lupin sniffed at the mug critically and took a drink. He pulled a face. "The coffee went bad, I suppose. Wonder how." He put the mug back on the table and turned to Finney, who lay miserably on the floor. "We need to get you home."

"Ye… ye… richt…" Finney turned his head and used the pail again. Mo wiped his mouth with his neckerchief.

"C'man," Lottie said. "We need tae git ye outta here. Dougie, gimme a hand."

Mo headed out with them, but Lupin said quickly, "It's alright. You stay."

With an arm around each shoulder, Finney was escorted out of the clean room and into the lift shaft. "Oop!" Lottie called.

They rose to the ground floor. "Wilbur!" Lottie said to Security.

The security guard stuck his head out of the door. "What's the matter?"

"Finney's came doun wi' sumthin'," she said. "Ring oop the Knicht Bus."

The stoker's legs tumbled from beneath him. Lottie bore the brunt of it as Lupin pulled him up.

"Hold on there," Lupin told him. "We'll walk you to the length of the Knight Bus."

Together the three made their way out onto the street and waited on the curb. Lottie kept saying, "Jus' keep yer head oop, Finney, and git sum fresh aire." Lupin was oddly quiet, waiting patiently for the bus to arrive and remove Finney from his presence.

BANG!

The triple-decker, purple bus ploughed through a restaurant front and skidded to a halt in front of _Waldo's Plugs and Outlets_. The doors of the Knight Bus whipped open.

The conductor leaned against the railing and began in a flat tone, "Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard-"

"An' the occshunal Squib!" Lottie intercepted. "Stan Shunpike, actin' all high an' mighty tae the Smaa Fowk!"

"Loretta Gordon!" Stan straightened up and tipped his hat. "Good to see you. I haven't been called up to Edinburgh in a while."

"Hallo Stan," Lottie greeted. "Can ye keep an eye on this ane? He's got a stomach bug."

"Right-o." The conductor stepped down and propped Finney up. Lottie and Lupin helped ease Finney onto the bus and into one of the beds. "Ye got a bucket too?" she inquired. "Or a bag or sumthin'? Finney's a bit queasy."

One look at Finney's face and Stan got the question. "Aye." He turned around.

"Hey Ern, do we 'ave somethin' fer a sick passenger?" After a few moments, he got a small bag and gave it to Finney.

Lottie rubbed the stoker's shoulder. "Ye be feelin' bitter nae," she said gently. "Say hallo tae yer wife an' kids for me. I'll check on ye tomorrow."

Finney nodded, too ill to speak. He gave a watery smile to them both.

Lupin felt obliged to add something. "Take care," he said over his shoulder as they left. Lottie watched the bus throw itself into the air and down the street, ramming through several traffic lights.

BANG!

It vanished through a brick wall.

"I hope he'll be better," she said, still worried.

"I'll sure it'll come to pass in a week or so," Lupin reassured her. He checked his watch. "We've got to get back inside. Can't leave Mo there all by himself."

He started his return to the Ministry while Lottie lingered behind, musing. "Did the cauffee smell odd in anee way when ye got it?" she questioned.

Lupin hurried his pace. "No, it seemed fine."

"Wha' aboot the cream? I know Finney's partial to three creams in his…"

"I had two creams meself. Nothin' wrong with mine." He checked over his shoulder. Lottie was staring off with a furrowed brow. Lupin put a hand against her back, since the height difference prevented him from putting an arm around her shoulders. "Hey, it can't be that bad," he said. "Anyways, he's coming home for some decent bed rest."

"Martha wuld be upset, thoo."

"Martha?"

"His wife."

"Ah." Lupin walked faster. Well, he certainly couldn't do anything about it! God, it'd only be an little while-!

He looked over his shoulder. Lottie was trailing, with a contemplative expression on her face that seemed almost uncharacteristic. Was she sharper than she appeared? No – no one had seen Lupin mix in the drugs. But still…

"Lottie," Lupin said in a benign voice, the same tone he had used so sincerely with Mary or with his former students. "What are you thinking about?"

She roused herself out of her private reverie and jumped a bit at seeing him so close. "It's nuthin'," she answered vaguely.

Mo was idly flicking a Gobstone across the table when they returned. He looked up expectantly.

"We teuk him tae the Knicht Bus," Lottie informed him.

"The Knicht Bus," he repeated.

"I'm goin' tae check oop on him in the mornin'. Wanna came?"

"In the mornin'," Mo replied. He slipped the Gobstone in his pocket and rose to his feet. Silently, he went over and hauled on his ice blaster.

Lupin saw his chance. "You can't go down there alone," he said. "Don't you need a partner to be with you?"

Mo opened his mouth to reply, but Lottie cut him off. "Aw, he's done the rounds hundreds oo times," she said. "It ain't the furst tha' he had to mak himself."

"That's quite dangerous though… Shouldn't you waiting until we can call up a replacement?"

Lottie countered, "At this hour? Nut a chance."

"Well, then I'll go."

Mo gave him a curious glance.

"Are ye sure ye want tae?" Lottie said doubtfully. "The Incinerator's no bonnie place. Ev'n I dun wanna go doun thaur."

"If Mo is willing to teach me," Lupin defended. "I see no reason not to. By the look of things as they are, Finney might be out a couple more nights. Mo would need somebody to look out for him."

"I dunno…" Lottie scratched the back of her flabby neck and exchanged a glance with the stoker. She sighed. "It's yer choice…" she agreed reluctantly.

"Moseley," he addressed, "You wouldn't mind taking someone?"

Mo eyed him steadily, as if measuring him up. However, he gave a stiff shake of his shaggy head.

Lottie reluctantly agreed. "Here, lemme help get this thing on ye," She said, hauling up the fuel tank with stubby arms. Lupin slipped into the shoulder straps and buckled the tank on. It was so heavy that he had to shuffle his weight for a few moments so he could retain his balance.

"Thaur ye go." She slapped the tank loudly. "An' here's ye shooter." The blaster was streamlined and flaming red, with a steel double-barrelled nozzle. She clicked it on. "Jus' lock an' load. Be careful nut tae git trigger happy," she added.

Mo handed him a breathing mask and goggles to go with his ensemble. Lupin thanked him and put them on. Both Lottie and Mo surveyed their substitute stoker.

"Weel, it's for the best," Lottie finally said.

"For the best," Mo agreed, his voice muffled through his mask.

"I'll see ye off," Lottie said, escorting them to the massive stone doorway.

"Watch ye feet," she advised Lupin. "Ye nev'r feel them crawlin' arund 'til its tae late."

Lupin weighed the blaster in his hand. The actual gun felt very light, yet the tank was like a boulder strapped to his back.

Mo went past him to the stairwell. The Incinerator was definitely part of the original structure of the building; the steps were uneven and cracked in many places. Mo turned on his pocket light and held it before them; Lupin focused at the small point of light ahead of him. Dimly flickering torches were mounted along the walls when they went down further, but they didn't shed any more light. Lupin noticed dark patches floating above them; it was smoke from the dozens of burning furnaces.

Down and down they went. Lupin tried counting the steps to see how far they went, but lost count after the first hundred and fifty. He surmised that they were at the lowest point of the entire building, possibly a kilometre into the ground.

Finally, they hit bottom. To his amazement, it wasn't hot. The temperature stayed about the same as above, probably even cooler. The air through the mask was clean and had a dry, papery taste to it; his tongue felt like it had spent a day licking envelopes.

They moved slowly. The outside air was noxious; the poisoned atmosphere was clogged with black dust. Silt and coal layered the ground like underwater slit; one kick of his boot sent swirls of dust twisting away into nothing. The only noise he made was the loud, mechanical sound of his own breath through the mask. Thin plumes of steam hissed through random dents in the piping.

Up ahead, he saw Moseley raise an arm to hurry up. Lupin moved forward, his arms clutching the cold weapon to his chest. One leap and he was suspended momentarily in the air, as if he was walking on the moon. Magic crackled in the atmosphere with the heat; its force was enough to slow down gravity. That was common in areas with high levels of magic. He touched down and went on.

Into the shadow clouds he followed the ash-man. Up ahead he could see brief flames of light – the furnaces. Violet, gold, blue, and neon green flames licked out of the gridiron doors. Smoke billowed up around them like spirits from the grave.

Suddenly, a thick, heavy beam cut through the fog ahead of him.

What was that-?

Instinctively, Lupin jumped back and aimed his nozzle. There, in a chilled mist, a dying Ashwinder lay frozen. Its grey skin had turned steel blue, with little ice crystals coating its scales. The serpent had been ready to strike, its gaping jaws stretched out to reveal needle-pointed fangs. The ruby eyes gave one last flicker before Mo's heavy coal boot ground the beast's head into ash. Mo nodded, gestured his hand forward, and moved toward the furnace.

Sweeping his hand through the clouded air to get a better look, Lupin saw a small cinder nest on the bare concrete. Three eggs glowed inside. Mo picked one of the Ashwinder eggs and placed it in Lupin's hand. It was about the size of his fist and warm yet heavy like a heated brick. Its shell was as soft and resistant as a reptile's egg, with swirls of yellow and crimson moving beneath the smooth surface.

_So this was a live egg_, Lupin thought, awed.

Mo sprayed the entire nest, and then gathered the frozen eggs into his side pouch. Lupin put his egg down on the ground and imitated his moves. The egg instantly turned a shade of cyan with lavender streaks.

Together, they moved through the endless night. Mo taught him a many things. He never spoke, but showed by example. Stomp a serpent's head immediately afterwards to prevent new Ashwinders from forming out of the remains. Stand still when you see an Ashwinder – usually a shadow escaping from the fire. Freeze the eggs before they explode.

Lupin witnessed what would happen if he didn't heed the last rule. They stopped by a nest that was glowing unusually bright. Mo backed away and pointed. Instantly, the egg exploded, sending a shower of sparks and magma yolk into the air.

He also noticed that despite the poor conditions, it was hard to get lost in the Incinerator. As Lupin had noted before in the clean room, the Incinerator was constructed in a series of concentric circles, with all the exits from each ring lined up in a row. The floor was lit with neon arrows that grew darker the further he descended. By the time he got to the fifth ring, the arrows had turned a dark red, like blood.

"Hissssss…"

Lupin stopped in his tracks. An Ashwinder?

He scanned the immediate area around him and discovered that he was alone.

"Moseley?" he called, but there was no answer.

"Hisss…"

Then it came. A long, whip of smoky steel glided out of the smoke.

Freeze! Lupin felt his hand go for the trigger but hesitated. The Ashwinder raised its body up like a cobra and beckoned, softly.

"Hisss…" Gently, its eyes smouldered. The surrounding flames gave the serpent a majestic glow, highlighting the muscular curves of its body. It was almost beautiful, terrifyingly beautiful.

Lupin backed away, half-cautious, half-awed. This was the closest he had ever been to a live Ashwinder.

The Ashwinder slithered toward him, its body moving with a woman's grace. The forked tongue flicked out.

Destroy it, destroy it! Lupin hoisted the gun on his shoulder and took aim.

_No. _

What? His eyes scanned around him. Who's there?

Demurely, the serpent lowered its belly to the ground again, and flowed along the concrete to his legs. What innocence! What charm! It turned its head, and Lupin was amazed at how the scales seemed to shimmer like mica in the firelight. A giddy headiness overcame him and he stood there, enthralled. His hands slipped.

"Hissss…."

The serpent was talking to him. Lupin held his breath. Impossible. He must be delirious. The smoke was getting to his brain somehow; this couldn't be real…

_Phhhhhssssstt!_

A jet of ice jumped out in front of him and hit the Ashwinder straight on. The creature fell, dead.

"Douglas!" Mo waved a fist at Lupin. "Nev'r do tha'!" he shouted, furious. "Wha' were ye starin' for?"

"W-what?" Lupin came out of his daze. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Dunnae do tha'!" Mo reprimanded. "Ye coulda been kilt!" He was speaking for himself for once. Lupin, not noticing, turned his head away.

"I didn't know what came over me," he apologized. "Only…" He trailed off, unable to continue.

"Ye could have been kilt!" The stoker shook his head. "Dunnae go leukin' at them," he told Lupin. "Tha's wha' they want ye tae do. An Ashwinder's bite is the must dangerous thing tha' kin happin tae ye. Their poison's quicker than their bite. Ye wun't ev'n be able tae yell afore yer dead!"

Mo took Lupin by the arm. "I'm takin' ye bac oop."

"No." The words shot out of Lupin's mouth. "No… I'll make up for it."

"C'man."

"I'll make up for it!" Lupin repeated, shaking Mo off. The stoker stumbled back. "I can do this, Moseley. You have to trust me on this!"

Mo wasn't replying. He stood, motionless.

Anger overtook him, much quicker than it ever had before. "Let me stay down here," Lupin said lowly.

Nothing but the crackle of flames in the background.

Then Mo said, in a strangled voice, "Take yer finger off, Douglas."

"What do you mean?"

"Put it doun."

The ice blaster was in his hands, the barrel end aimed at his co-worker. Oh, damn… Lupin hadn't realized…

_Control, Remus, control yourself…_

He dropped the weapon. It fell to the ground, dangling from its cord. "I-I didn't mean it that way," Lupin started. He laughed and this sounded strange to him. He didn't know what was so funny.

"We're goin'." Moseley turned around, confident that Lupin would follow.

"It was a mistake." Lupin took large, clumsy steps through the thick smoke, letting the blaster drag behind him. "A mistake. Yer in no shape for this."

"I was only a bit overwhelmed," Lupin reasoned, calming his tone. He picked up his weapon and heaved it over his shoulder. Swallowing heavily, he played his attitude again. "I was frightened," he lied. "The Ashwinder scared me. I couldn't take action. But I won't let that happen again."

Mo stopped. The smoke crawled through and shrouded him like curtains in the breeze. "The Ashwinder dunnae scare ye," he said huskily. "Ye was not scared a-tall."

Lupin didn't know how to reply to that.

Mo waved a hand forward.

Lottie was waiting for them up at the top. Lupin attempted to play false cheer, as if nothing extraordinary had happened at all. But he couldn't help but overhearing Lottie asking,

"He dunnae mak it?"

"He dunnae mak it," Moseley replied.

Chapter 16

Lupin liked the night. He hadn't realized how much until his biological clock got switched around with this new job. What was the difference between night and day anyhow; they were only divisions of time, like hours, minutes and seconds. Everything can be reduced to something basic and simple, Lupin realized: time, life, morality.

There was no good or evil to categorize. There was only what he wanted and what others wanted; there was only what _he thought_ was right; there was only helping himself and helping others. And he was only helping himself now. That couldn't be too terrible, could it?

Everything seemed to make so much more sense, these night time ponderings.

It was nearly three o' clock in the morning when he sat at the end of his bed, staring at the wall. Along one of them, he had pinned up the map of the entire Ministry. Red marker showed his places of action. Janitorial nicknames scrawled over the official ones, along with the security shifts and individual guards. Little notes dotted the map as well, such as these:

Lottie's Routine: Hallways, toilets, Midnight tea, Owlery, telly.

Stoker Routine: Down below (6-9), Break, down below (10-12), Midnight tea, down below (1-4), end shift

Phineas (Finney) – Has wife (Martha) and five children (6 months 3,4,8,10)

Moe – Laconic. Suspicious target.

Felix C. Burtman – Being Resources Director. Worked at Azkaban. Pyromaniac. (?)

In the area of the map marked "Incinerator" Lupin had drawn several grey swirls with red eyes for no apparent reason and noted mysteriously: Watch the feet.

Lupin stood with the mess ahead in front of him, red marker in hand. He was writing on another parchment tacked to the wall. Here's what it said:

PROTECTIVE WARDS

Personal

Arial

On-Command

SPELLS

Vacuum Cloud

LOCK-PICKS

POTIONS

Acid Melt

Disintegration

The red marker was drying out; it squeaked underneath his hand. Damn. Lupin shook the marker several times, then tossed it over his shoulder. It rolled across the barren floor.

In his other hand, a small porcelain doll was being squeezed between his fingers. Its curly hair hung in limp ringlets; its glass eyes looked into nothing. He didn't know why he still had the doll; perhaps it was because it reminded him of her. It was supposed to have been a gift to her, but now he kept it as a gift to himself.

Sometimes he liked to stroke the smooth face and run his fingertips through the dark curls that were so different from the golden ones he knew. He loved to touch this doll, this little precious, all over. Imagining her soft skin beneath his touch and how her eyes sparkled as they anticipated his every move. Her warm presence in that night they had shared in each other's arms, chasing away each other's nightmares.

The memory came so clear into focus now; it was dark, except for the faint street light from the window. Her features were coated in darkness and smoothed out so all the flaws disappeared. Her cherub face resting against his pillow, her gentle breathing against his cheek… And simply knowing she was there, that she was there for him and to have her entirely to himself to hold and love – oh, he wanted to have that feeling again.

He wanted to have her so badly that it pained him.

Yes, this was how Remus Lupin spent all his nights. And during all his days he slept and dreamed he was a man named Douglas Ridley, who had a nice cottage in the country, and a daughter with wondering blue eyes, and a wife with raven hair. Sometimes, he believed them so much he thought that he was Douglas Ridley dreaming that he was Remus Lupin. But then he would reason, _No, that can't be, because Douglas is a lonely, empty janitor who has no family. _

And sometimes, all of these frustrations and confusing dreams collided with him from all angles and he felt helpless and very, very alone. He wanted to see Sirius again and have Claire by his side. He wanted to hold a little girl in his arms and go to sleep feeling needed. He wanted to feel safe and secure again with himself – his real self. Now he would find himself and find her, no matter what. He committed himself to her rescue. Everything he had done so far, after all, was with good intentions.

The road Lupin followed was always paved with good intentions.

He had a quill in his hand now and slowly crossed a line through Phineas's name. He paused, contemplating. He only had a few more days to get the eggs.

Lupin sat in his chair in the Custodial Services Office, brooding. Everything seemed to irritate him tonight: this mess, this office, this fat, little midget gawking at the telly screen mounted in the upper corner. He was chewing a large wad of gum in his mouth – Douglas was a gum chewer after all – and tried blowing a bubble. It didn't work.

"Only 19.99-"

"-laughing like that but I swear-"

"But Jeffery, I couldn't-"

His annoyance became fine-tuned and focused upon the unsuspecting Lottie, chewing away in front of the flickering TV screen, the remote in her hand, every part of her dead except for the over-active thumb, flipping channels.

Her life was the epitome of a wretched existence, far worse than his. For a while Lupin had pitied her, and maybe even grown to like Lottie for her honesty and friendliness, but now some bitter resentment wanted to shoot out and hurt her. She was stuck there and never even bothered to pull herself out of the muck. And now they were crawling underground together and he hated the Squib because she was with him and stood in his way of getting what _he_ wanted.

"Choose something," he told her.

The glowing lights that reflected off her sickly face kept changing.

"-and current Ministry officials state-"

"-the sacrifice He made calls for all of us-"

"Choose something," he repeated, straightening up.

Her mouth was an automated machine. Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch. Never mind her mouth, her whole life was automated. Look at her. Could she even hear him?

"Lottie?" Lupin rose from his chair and approached the desk. "Lottie, can you hear me?"

Hand to mouth. Hand to mouth. Crunch, crunch, crunch.

This irritation became too much for him to ignore. In one quick move, he swiped the remote away from her.

She came out of the fugue and raised her head. "Wha' dae ye want?" she demanded curiously.

"Choose something!" he cried out for the third time.

"Wha'?"

"Choose… choose…" Lupin threw up his arms in a bewildered gesture.

"Choose life!" he exclaimed, shutting the television off with a flourish. Lottie turned her head toward him. Her eyes had become too huge for even her massive face, two enormous brown cow eyes, staring numbly.

"Choose a real job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a big-screen television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose leisure-ware and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suite at higher price and an arrangement of fabrics!" He made a wild gesture towards the dark box.

"Choose DIY and wondering what's on this Sunday morning! Choose sitting at that desk watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing junk food into your mouth!" he snapped with a sarcastic bite. "Choose rotting away at the end of an old, miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish brats you spawned to replace yourself. Choose your future. Choose life."

Ending his tirade, Lupin plunked himself back down in his seat. His shoulders slumped and he put his head in his heads. Damn. He had blown his cover! What had he been thinking? Yet both regret and satisfaction filled his mind. He looked at her. They were all simple. All of them. So simple and so miserable.

Douglas had to apologise. Douglas was a sensible man who didn't like to offend others.

"Sorry," he said, with a worn-out sort of embarrassment in his voice. "I'm feeling a bit irritable tonight." Dejectedly, he handed the remote control back to her.

Wordlessly, Lottie took it back. "Weel, wha' aboot ye then?" she asked roughly. She stared at the ground, blinking profusely. "Wha' did ye choose?"

"I chose not to choose life," he replied, slouching in his chair. His eyes stared around the messy room with resignation. "I chose something else."

"Oh. A bit oo a high talker, aren't we?" She said, turning away. Lupin thought he saw her wipe her face. Remorse filled him, but then he recalled how much he despised this place and pushed it away.

"I'm…I'm jus' feelin' off colour." Lupin pulled a Douglas smile. "I'm needin' a nap right now."

"Get yerself same cauffee," she said. She faced him again with a forgiving smile that wobbled. "It's been a long nicht…"

Lottie, chained to the flickering glow, turned on the screen again. A 2 AM showing of one of those syndicated situation-comedies. Soon, Lottie's gleeful titters came in unison with the laugh track.

Had everything he had just said go in one ear and out the other? He sighed. His eyes travelled around the haphazard Custodial Services office and that feeling of pity returned for these poor creatures like her and him. This constant drudgery, the endless hallways to mop, the countless bins to fill with boundless heaps of stinking trash, the continuous progression of toilets to scrub – he wondered how a person could stand this. The work was menial, but it was more than that which affected him. Perhaps it was the repetition. Day in, day out, spent cleaning up someone else's mess. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. It was as if the entire lives of these people had been funnelled down into nothing but the mop and the suds bucket. And no one else seemed to appreciate their work.

And it was not only the janitors who lived in ignorance. What about Ralph the Owlery worker? Or Phil and Mo, the ash-men? Or even the dishwashers at the Three Broomsticks? Or the Knight Bus drivers? There was a whole class of people out there, living on the tail-end of society.

He recalled Argus Filch, the grumpy Hogwarts caretaker. He had never been a particularly friendly Squib, but, then again, the world hadn't welcomed him with a smile either. Lupin understood why Filch had always preferred the company of Mrs. Norris to people. Cats did not care about status as much as people did.

Lupin had always known this gigantic framework existed, and that he too was trapped in this hierarchy. And he accepted this. Nevertheless, working in this dark world now, even if only for a little while, this caste system still saddened him. Yes, he didn't truly hate anyone here. He only hated the establishment. That thought calmed him down.

_No wonder we work mostly at night,_ he thought, recalling what Lottie had said to him his first night, "_like vampires – or werewolves." Squibs and wolves – both extreme ends of the same spectrum and both rejected._

Absent-mindedly, Lupin picked up a quill off the communal desk and began fiddling with it. Lottie burst out in another spew of jowl-jangling guffaws.

"Did ye see tha', Dougie?" she spluttered, pointing to the telly. She leaned her weight into the chair and tipped it backwards so far that she nearly toppled over. Her stubby legs kicked out into the air like a house-elf who fell into a cauldron headfirst. And Lupin could only watch, mutely, as her chins bobbed up and down, as her hands slapped her knees.

Suddenly, he could comprehend why she did this night after night. She wasn't as simple as he had previously surmised.

"Tha' was… tha' was classic, Dougie! S-s-see wha' he did? Jus' toppled richt ov'r!" She was wiping her eyes. They were coming down so fast, and her voice cracked so much that by this point, Lottie couldn't be in stitches. She was drowning in her own tears.

Chapter 17

Tonight was Tuesday, February 23th. Lupin folded the Evening Prophet shut and plopped it on the bed. On the front were the bold letters "Champions Prepare for the Second Task."

Somewhere, Harry Potter was searching futilely through the Hogwarts library, trying to find an underwater breathing spell. Here, Remus Lupin was searching for his invisible pouch that he would use to steal a dozen Ashwinder eggs.

Rifling through his briefcase, his hand touched something cold and unfamiliar. He jerked back as if burned. What was that? Lupin picked up the object: his family Bible. How long had it been since he had leafed through it? Lupin put it down uneasily. He used to at least flip through the pages every night – it had comforted him. Just as his father's cross comforted him. But, of course, he hadn't needed either of them for a long time.

Lupin raised his head toward the mirror to see a stranger staring back at him. No, that wasn't a stranger – that was him. No, that wasn't him – that was Douglas Ridley. He was… he was Remus Lupin.

_How odd,_ Lupin pondered to himself. _I don't even recognize myself anymore…_

"My name is Remus Lupin," he said aloud. The sentence felt alien on his tongue. A wary uncertainty crept along his spine. He took a step closer to the mirror.

"My name is Remus Lupin." His mouth formed the words, but it was like watching an actor on Lottie's telly screen.

Bowing his head, Lupin put a hand to his temple. What was he thinking? He chuckled to himself and gave a crooked grin at his reflection.

"I'm even alking' to meself!" he realized suddenly with a laugh. "Wi' the Scottish brogue!" He struck one of Lottie's poses in the mirror: shoulders back, jaw firmly set, and one fist pointed forward, as if wrapped around the wooden handle. "Ye bitter stoop nae, Reemus," he mimicked, "afore ye go bonkers!"

God, why was he having such stupid thoughts! He found the pouch, which was turned inside out so the visible fabric showed. He reversed it and it disappeared, then tucked this into his robes. There we go.

From over the sink, Douglas Ridley smiled contentedly. "Everything is perfectly fine," Lupin told him.

That evening he acted especially helpful and kind to Lottie. Partially it was because he felt guilty about making her cry the other night, but mostly it was because he wanted to butter her up so she wouldn't suspect a thing. When midnight tea came around, instead of spending it with her, he asked, casually, "Lottie, I'll be takin' a rest at the office."

"Go ahead," she said. She wiped her brow and put the mop back in the bucket. "Yu'll be needin' aneethin'?"

"Nah. Jus' some sleep. Oh, and say hi to Mo if you see him up here."

Lupin walked off the floor and toward the elevators. "Doun!" he ordered. Then, he dropped and continued to the bottom. There, he crouched down in a corner, tensely, until Mo left the clean room.

As he stood there in the shadows, eyeing the giant chute above and the great door beside it, he went over his plan. Mo would go back up to get his midnight cup of coffee, then return. Hopefully, Lottie would flag him down and delay him with that incessant chatter of hers. That would give Lupin at least ten minutes to suit up by himself and go. He was taking a chance – a dozen eggs in one night was a hard find – but a strange confidence buoyed his thoughts.

There – Lupin squinted. Mo had exited. The stoker raised a hand and he swished upwards. Gone.

Lupin counted the seconds. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Then, he dashed up through the air to the door. Fumbling for his lock picks, he jammed the largest one into the keyhole and shuffled it around. The _click_ was heard from behind the door and he slipped through, locking up behind him.

Now in the clean room, he went for Finney's gear. Where would it be-? Oh, the faculty closet of course! He swung it open and saw the needed gear. Snapping on the mask and goggles, Lupin then reached for the tank. Ugh – it was so damn heavy! He dragged it onto the floor and squatted down, slipped his arms through the straps, snapped them in place and heaved. The tank felt even more burdensome than before – Lupin groaned, straining. Finally, he got onto his feet. Taking a lantern from the shelf, he stole away down the staircase.

Lupin could feel the adrenaline rush through his head as he went down. His steps were hasty, and he lost his footing. Lupin flailed for the railing and dropped the lantern. It broke, sending pieces of glass scattering everywhere. Damn! Should he go back for another one? No, there wasn't enough time! There were torches there, he reasoned. Torchlight was enough…

The steps never seemed to end. Lupin checked his watch. Already the ten minutes had passed. Was Mo already up there? No matter, Lupin wouldn't mind staying here all night if he had to. First matters first. He had to get the eggs.

After another few minutes, he reached the Incinerator level, with the same smoke clouds and dust he had encountered before. He kept his eyes on the ground. He had to find a nest, there had to be one somewhere…

The outer rings proved fruitless, and Lupin trudged on toward the centre. His vision became a whir of red-hot furnaces and flying flames toward his face. He kept moving left, guided by the glowing arrows on the floor. Lupin took his chances and came right up to the roaring gridiron covers of the furnaces, where the fire was the hottest. _Where are those damned Ashwinders?_ he fumed impatiently.

He charged through the fifth ring. By now, the temperature had risen significantly. Perspiration soaked his neckline and dripped down his brow. The tank was growing too cumbersome to bear; he started to walk hunch-backed under its weight. Still, he knew there had to be some eggs that Mo had missed!

Up ahead through the thick smog, he saw something shine and pulsate on the floor. His boots touched crushed ash. The beginnings of an Ashwinder nest. Excitedly, Lupin ploughed ahead. Soon, his highest aspirations were rewarded.

Lupin found them. His eyes grew large. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty – there were almost a hundred eggs out here, in little piles of four or five that stretched out into the smoke. One huge nest, or probably a cache of nests grouped together. He aimed and fired on the first few dozen before him. The frozen eggs twinkled like diamonds.

Getting down on one knee, Lupin put down his weapon to inspect them. Most were abnormally huge; he picked up one the size of a croquet ball. What kind of Ashwinder could lay these? _A very large one,_ he answered himself.

Lupin tucked this into his pocket. As Lupin scooped up the largest of the eggs into his satchel, he couldn't help but wonder if he should take more than thirteen. One could invest well in Ashwinder eggs.

"Hissssssssssssss…."

He felt something slither over his ankle. His breath caught in his lungs.

"Hissssssssssssssss……"

The sound was now by his left knee. Slowly, Lupin reached to grab the ice blaster—

— and settled on warm, crumbling scales.

"Hiisssssssssss…"

Lupin jerked his hand away. Thankfully, the snake didn't react.

He swallowed his fears. An Ashwinder was on his weapon. One move and it could strike. He must not provoke it. Carefully, Lupin grasped the buckles and unlatched each. _Clack._ _Clack._

_Thud._ The fuel tank hit the ground.

Now rise.

Lupin moved into a crouching position. His palms stretched themselves parallel to the ground, ready to snatch up his weapon. Slowly…. Just slowly…

He turned his head slightly and caught the grey coil in his peripheral vision.

There it was.

He got to his feet. Breathe. Carefully…

The coil disappeared.

"Hissssssssss……"

Now! Move! Lupin grabbed the ice blaster and fired. The spray whipped out of the steel nozzle and struck the Ashwinder with such intensity its head snapped back. The creature gave a shaky death rattle and fell. Lupin jumped upon the serpent's head and crushed it under his heel.

_Thank God_, Lupin thought, wiping his brow with the back of his robe sleeve. He looked at the poor, thin rope body. It was barely the thickness of two fingers, not the heavy girth he had seen out of the corner of his eye.

"Hissssssss…" A chorus of reptilian cries.

No.

There was more than one.

Lupin whirled around and shot out another blast of liquid ice. It missed widely. A wispy shadow escaped into the smoke. Fire! Another blast of cold. An Ashwinder crumbled.

"Hissssssss!"

Freeze! The cold blue lashed out against the demonic beasts.

Get them!

"Hisssss!"

Lighting coils, whipping, vanishing, reappearing-

Watch the feet!

Lupin jumped and froze an Ashwinder that had almost got his ankle. The fuel tank remained on the floor and fell on its side. Lupin was pulled down with it. He cried out; he grabbed a free shoulder strap; he hauled the heavy tank up. But he couldn't buckle it on; there were so many; there wasn't enough time-

"Hisss!"

Shoot them!

"Hisss!"

Frigid blue against seething grey masses-

Freeze! Freeze! Freeze!

Lupin jumped, dodged, turned, fired, and cursed at the filthy beasts. His boots smashed frozen heads into powder as he unleashed the arctic blast again and again and again. One of his arms dragged the cumbersome fuel tank behind him; the other took a life of its own, manoeuvring this way and that to shoot. Sweat poured down his face and dripped onto his goggles, blurring his vision. His hands became sore; the arm dragging the tank lost feeling.

The Ashwinders fought fiercely for their cache, ducking and swerving his shots, escaping into the smoking billows for safety, then attacking from behind his back. Lupin was turning circles, growing dizzy, firing in all directions. Die! Die!

_Totally illogical_, said a pragmatic voice in the back of his brain, _since these fire creatures weren't truly alive, but only magical manifestations_; yet Lupin wasn't thinking logically at the moment. He just wanted to destroy them all.

"Hiissss!"

The combat dragged on yet action was limited to only the pull of the trigger and the pounding of feet. But there were so many, too many. A savage, untamed desperation welled out in his soul; he swore he had never felt such anger. Why did there have to be so many of them? Damn then all just for being!

The ice-cold shots became weaker and weaker; he was running out of fuel.

"Hiss!"

An Ashwinder had crawled up the fuel tank towards his arm. No! Lupin fired, grabbed the serpent by its throat, and tossed it away.

"Let me be!" he spat.

His finger pulled at the trigger once more. There was no more pressure. A skinny icicle dripped out.

"Hissss…"

Oh bloody hell!

In near exhaustion, Lupin dropped the shooter. He wasn't going to die! He wasn't going to die, not like this-!

Lupin's eyes went to the cache of eggs. A couple of them were glowing brightly like tiny nova stars. They were about to explode-

Quickly, Lupin reached down and snagged a burning egg. The heat scorched through his gloves; he clenched his teeth in agony. Dropping the fuel tank on a serpent's head, Lupin tucked the egg on top and jumped. He ran through the mass of Ashwinders, his legs stumbling over their chalky scales. Move! Move! Move!

The egg on the fuel tank exploded into flames, igniting the tank. The steel drum exploded, sending more fire and shrapnel into the serpents' lair. The remnants of cold fuel evaporated, sending little flakes of white into the air before they were swallowed in the heat.

The heat from the exploding egg ignited the other eggs in the cache; a chain reaction was set off, with eggs bursting one after another. Contained explosions, like firecrackers, boomed around him. The loud wail of frightened Ashwinders filled the air. Lupin continued his mad dash away from the area. A stab of pain entered his right shoulder; Lupin grasped the piece of steel and wrenched it out of his flesh.

Finally, he stopped in the smoggy mists, winded and hurt. The explosions still sounded off in the distance. Lupin fell on his hands and knees, gasping through his breathing mask. He put a hand to his wounded shoulder and felt the hot blood ooze out. For many minutes, he remained in that position with his hand trying to staunch his wound. His eyes stared blankly at the ground. Lupin was counting his breaths. _Calm down, Remus. It's over… It's over… _

After a long while, he looked up and wiped the drying sweat from the front of his goggles. Lupin got to his feet again and gave a backwards glance. The mists parted a little, revealing a small, dirty mark pitting the concrete about 50 yards away. The area surrounding it was bare; the entire nest and all of its occupants had been decimated in the conflagration.

Lupin sighed and headed down the curving hall. He checked his pockets. Only three eggs were on him. Such a pity to waste the rest like that, but not a bad catch overall. He would have to give these to Goldflincher as soon as possible, probably when he got off his shift.

Two pinpoint ruby eyes blinked in the smoke behind him. A tiny snake, only a newborn from the furnace, slithered toward the sound of his departing footsteps.

Now he would have to ask for an extension to get the rest of the eggs. Goldfincher had better be patient; he didn't want to have Gringotts Bank after him too. What an idiotic move on his part – he was the one who had said to give him a week. And he had greatly underestimated those Ashwinders and the time it would take to acquire those eggs. Why did he have to try so hard to outdo these Squibs-!

An idea struck him. He could deal with them! They were giving away good eggs at five Knuts apiece. All he had to do was offer _ten_ Knuts and he would be set! Just cash these Ashwinder eggs he had now and use it to barter for a dozen. Dear God, why hadn't he thought of that before-? Now Lupin felt like a damned fool. All he had to do was go to Gringotts and exch—

"Hisss…"

He didn't see the Ashwinder until it had wrapped around his ankle.

But by then it was too late.

Lupin sank to the floor, only a few strides away from the stairway. He made no sound as he fell – he couldn't – so no one knew he was down in the Incinerator, not even Moseley when he came back to the clean room and started a solitary game of Gobstones.

The last things Lupin heard were the whispers of fire and the minute _plink_ of throwing stones on the table – one sound inaudible to the world except him – one sound, one trifling sound, echoing down the stairwell to his dying ears –

_Plink…_

_plink… _

_plin-_

End of Part 4.


	5. Mind vs. Body

**Summary:** Sirius now takes a chance to investigate the Second Task of the Triwizard Tournament, while Lupin deals with other... issues...  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author notes:** All my love goes to Gileonnen, AlphieLJ, Thing1, Durayan, Livia Liana, Rage Point, and everyone else who dealt with my little issues. Kudos goes to my beta readers, as always, and another cheer to Gileonnen and Anise for writing their own continuations of WbE for the Schnoogle House Cup Challenge. Any similarity between their submissions and anything in WbE Part 5 is purely coincidental – or perhaps they have a powerful sense of prediction.

Revised: May 2005, for minor grammar and formatting.

WOLF BY EARS

Part Five: Mind vs. Body

By D.M.P.

Life... is simply not a series of exciting new ventures... There tends to be unfinished business. One trails all sorts of things around with one, things that simply won't be got rid of.

Anita Brookner, _Lewis Percy_.

Chapter 18

The date was Wednesday, February 24th.

Sirius paced the floor of the cave. It was a new one, higher up in the mountains, a crammed wedge between two slabs of rock.

The inside was chilly and damp, with very poor ventilation and a drooping ceiling overrun with stalactites. Sirius could only stay inside while he was in his dog form.

He missed his old hideout, but he didn't dare return. There could be a Recording Spell place on there, or a Tracking Charm, or Hit Wizards lying in wait. Sirius had better sense than to walk right into a trap.

But today was February 24th, and he had more important things to think about.

Should he go? Sirius glanced back at the day-old Evening Prophet, with the words, "Champions Prepare for Second Task" emblazoned on the front.

If he had had any foresight, Sirius would have inquired about the Second Task to Harry. But after his last run-in with Zaria, Sirius had convinced himself that the entire Ministry was only a few chances away from getting his head on a stick, and he had no intention of that happening. He had wandered the mountains for weeks after, scouring through the more rugged slopes, cutting through hidden valleys, crawling just within the safety of the treeline. Only a few days ago had he had time to jot down a terse message to Harry:

_Send date of Hogsmeade weekend by return owl._

Now Sirius was stuck in a quandary: whether to go down to Hogwarts and see the Second Task or stay up here where it was safe. The last time he had tried helping out his godson, Sirius had been re-captured by the Ministry. Hell, he wasn't going to risk another incident, especially now when there was someone who knew of his Animagus identity.

Other than possibly Zaria, there was only one other at Hogwarts who knew his canine self: Albus Dumbledore. During that chance meeting over the summer, Lupin had told Sirius how he confessed everything to Dumbledore after the June full moon and initiated further contact with the headmaster. Thus, whenever Sirius sent a letter to Harry, he always remembered to send another one to Dumbledore. It was the headmaster, after all, who had first suggested that he hide out in the mountains, when he wrote that first letter to Sirius. However, ever since the December full moon, checking up with Dumbledore had slipped his mind. He had only sent out that single line to Harry, and even that was weeks ago. Chances of the headmaster contacting him were slim; Sirius knew that fulfilling his paranoiac wanderlust would have given any owl a nearly impossible time to tracking him down.

Should he track Dumbledore down at Hogwarts? Sirius knew he was a judge at the Tournament, so he wouldn't be too difficult to locate. But still, if the Ministry was involved...

Buckbeak, the ungrateful birdbrain, didn't believe in Zaria's ill intentions. He wanted to stay behind and get fat on squirrels. The hippogriff firmly held that Zaria posed no threat whatsoever. Granted, the animal still thought that she had a "thing" for Sirius.

Sirius slunk out of the crevice and reverted back to his human shape, slouching against the mountainside. "The tournament's today," he announced to Buckbeak. "We have to form some sort of plan of action."

The hippogriff ignored him, preoccupied with his meal. He distastefully poked at their daily food rummage, a meagre pile of dried vegetation.

Sirius cleared his throat. "Buck!"

Giving a dismissive grunt at the woodland selection, Buckbeak faced his companion. "Craw," he deadpanned.

Sirius had been waiting for him to say that. Yes, he knew how terrible the food was. "I'm talking here. Aren't you listening?"

The hippogriff only snorted and crunched on a dried pinecone. Pinecones could be found in plenty where they were, but little else.

"Unfortunately, I don't see any other choice than going down to Hogwarts myself. Asking you to go in my place-"

_Crunch._ Another pinecone met its doom.

"-is completely out of the question." Sirius glared at his companion. "Hey?" He snapped his fingers in the beast's face. "A little attention here?"

Buckbeak turned his head away. A few grainy bits tumbled out the side of his beak. After hacking for a few moments, he turned both fiercely orange eyes to glare at Sirius.

He gave a frustrated sigh. "C'mon, they aren't that bad!" Sirius picked up a small brown one from the pile. "Better to starve than be caught. Besides, rodents weren't much better." To give any example, Sirius bit into one and nearly broke his front teeth. "Arrgh!"

A growling laugh escaped Buckbeak's throat.

"Aw, quiet."

Buckbeak glanced at him slyly. If he had possessed any eyebrows, Sirius was sure that one would have been raised in an "I told you so" fashion.

Sirius tossed the piece of natural refuse away. "That's it, I'm not even going to try anymore, you stubborn prig."

Buckbeak made a sarcastic noise. Hippogriffs can sound very sarcastic when they wanted to.

"Oh, for crying out loud! You're not taking me seriously." Sirius turned his back on the animal. "Go ahead. Wallow in your own selfish pity and let Harry die. And I assumed you had some sort of respect for him."

The hippogriff balked, taken back. He got up on his paws and talons in defence.

"I only ask for one favour, one tiny service, you know, for the boy's sake... We both owe something to him..."

Buckbeak twittered something to himself (hippogriffs can't mumble; that required lips), still on the fence.

"And I'll try to filch you something on the way down," he added.

That settled it. Buckbeak lightly rammed his beak into Sirius's shoulder in approval. Sirius slapped him in the flank.

"Oh, that's a good boy," he said.

Sirius crept furtively toward Hogwarts. It was awfully hard to be furtive as a black dog in mid-winter, but Sirius managed. Losing weight (not to say that he had gained much after returning to Scotland) enabled him to sneak around more easily.

The Second Task was centred upon the gigantic lake in front of the castle. That was a good thing; an available escape into the Forbidden Forest was simple enough.

The milling crowd packed the lawn so heavily that Sirius could barely see an opening to slip through. A low humming of hundreds of voices filled the air. Up ahead, the stands appeared so compact that it didn't appear as if many individuals were sitting there, but as if one enormous, multi-coloured block had plunked itself down in front of the lake. Five or so vendors were on the lawn as well, selling roasted turkey legs and mugs of hot butterbeer. Sirius started to pant, and not because he had been running. The smoky, spicy scent was so strong he could almost taste the hot poultry.

Overhead, a cold, distant sun shone down through a haze of clouds upon the small row of tents set up behind the stands. Sirius could spot the bright yellow medical tent and another tent separate from that where the Four Champions must be. An excited rush went through him. He still had a chance to speak to Harry.

Sirius checked around him - no sign of anyone. Yet who knew - this place could be swarming with Unspeakables. Maybe if he were really lucky, he would meet up with that cocky bastard Croaker again. What joy! Sirius took cautious steps toward the stands, sniffing the grass like an innocent stray. Every few seconds, however, his pale eyes swept the Tournament grounds. Sirius then sprinted to the back of the bleachers and made his way underneath.

Among the support beams, Sirius checked the distance between his spot and the Champions' tent. Anyone there? Anyone? Sirius poked his head out. A small family. A few Hogwarts students. Madame Hooch ambled by, humming to herself. No one of importance.

Taking his chance, Sirius moved out of hiding to the tent. So far, so good, so far, so good, so far, so good...

He came to the yellow canvas. He ducked his head lower and tugged his nose underneath. Squirming, Sirius managed to stick his head under the tent cover.

A pair of rubber fins was the first thing he encountered along with a heavy set of bare legs.

Whoa! Sirius pulled back and moved over. Now with his vision unblocked, he saw that the legs belonged to a boy dressed only in a pair of blue swimming trunks with red stripes, pulling on the flippers. On the other side of the tent, a tall blonde had her back turned and was delicately adjusting the folds of her robes. In the centre another boy paced nervously.

So these were the Champions. Sirius recalled what he could from the newspapers and put names to the faces: the swimmer was Viktor Krum, the blondie was Fleur Delacour, and the other must be that Hufflepuff Cedric Diggory. But where was Harry?

Suddenly, the tent flap burst open and an agitated young man stomped in. By the look of his robes, Sirius could tell he worked at the Ministry. Sirius retreated further, walking sideways until he could hide his head behind the drop cloth placed over a table set up inside the tent. Hey, not the most sneaky elusive of hiding places, but everyone was too preoccupied to notice him.

"He's not here yet?" the newcomer exclaimed, looking around.

The tent's occupants looked up. Krum snapped a pair of green goggles over his face. "Not yet," he said.

"But the Task's supposed to start in ten minutes!" The young official gave a frustrated sound and said, "Mr. Bagman wants me to lead the Champions up front." Checking his watch, he added, "Someone has to run down to the dormitories first and-"

"Let us go out," Fleur protested, pulling her silvery locks into a ponytail. "I am sure 'Arry will come on time."

"You don't know," the official snapped. Irritated, he pushed up his owl-horned glasses. "He could have overslept."

Cedric stopped his pacing. "Maybe you're right," he said. "Someone should go back and find him."

"Do we haff the time?" Krum questioned seriously. "The crowd is vaiting. In my experience, it is very bad to haff a crowd vait."

Before anyone could reply, the tent flap opened for a tubby man wearing aqua-green robes with various sea animals stitched all over them. "Good morning, my Champions! Ready for a swim?" he exclaimed readily, then paused. "Where's Harry?"

"That's exactly our problem," the young man said irritably, crossing his arms. "He hasn't shown up yet and we have only six-" another time check "-now five minutes left!"

"Hey, take a breather there, Percy," the man said grandly, slapping him on the back. "I'm sure Harry's just wrestling with some last-minute nerves."

"I'm sure that Harry could have dealt with those nerves while waiting in his tent like he's suppose to," Percy muttered.

The sound of the crowd reached their ears. The man glanced over his shoulder. "I think it's time for us to head on out."

Cedric looked worried. "But Mr. Bagman-" he protested.

"We can't wait up for him; it's the rules," Bagman replied. "If he can't make it on time, then he'll have some points deducted from his total." The other Champions exchanged uncomfortable looks. It seemed like none of them wanted to come out ahead because another had lost points on a technicality.

Sirius became wary himself. He should be the one to go to retrieve Harry. He backed out of the tent and turned around.

"Now what do we have here?"

Oh shit!

A wooden peg poked his side. Sirius jumped and swerved out of the way. Taking a leap back, he looked up to the scarred visage of Mad-Eye Moody.

The retired Auror eyed Sirius suspiciously. Sirius ducked his head. Damn it, act like a dog! He did his own study of Moody, sniffing around his single leg. A quick glance and he noticed that flask hanging on his belt. The same flask that Lupin swore had been filled with Polyjuice Potion-

"What are you doing here, mutt?" Moody whispered. Sirius could feel that magical eye scan over him with mechanical accuracy and shuffled back. He checked himself before a growl could escape.

"Wander over from Hogsmeade?" he said. "Thought you could steal a bite of turkey?"

Sirius found himself moving further backwards. Legends about Moody had spread far and wide, including the one about his mental decline. The wizard could be even more paranoid than him. Did Moody suspect him? Damn, damn, damn...

Moody took his wand out of its holster and held it up menacingly. "Shoo!" he snapped, flicking it at him. "Shoo!"

By hell, he was going to shoo. Sirius spun on his heels and trotted off nonchalantly. What kind of idiot is he, telling him to shoo...

Still, Sirius couldn't shake that unsettling feeling he got upon seeing the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Quite possibly many others got the creepers from seeing Moody, but this feeling was different from that. It was his sixth sense ringing in his mind, the feeling of something intensely dangerous and horrible was crawling on his skin. He shuddered and became even more confused.

Without any notice, a hot sting hit his rear legs. Sirius jumped, startled, and heard Moody laugh behind him.

"Move on, mutt, before you get another one!"

Sirius's temper flared. That old fartbag! What gave him the right-! Sirius was about to turn around when he saw another flash hit the ground beside him.

"Get on!" The laughter grew louder, disturbingly so for an old man chasing off a stray. "Before I come after you myself!"

This time, Sirius heeded the warning. He ran headlong into the Forbidden Forest and didn't stop until he was hidden safely among the trees.

Did he know? Sirius rolled on the snowy ground, if only to shake off that disquieting feeling. No, if he did, then he would have done more than fired a sting at him. It didn't seem as if anyone knew his identity. Well, except for the Unspeakables probably, wherever they were.

A few yards deeper into the forest, he heard a muffled thump, and the cracking of several branches at once. Buckbeak landed in the forest as well and emerged from behind a trunk.

Sirius changed back and leaned against a fallen tree. "Did you see anything suspicious?" he asked.

Buckbeak shook his head. "Squawk."

"No patrol units?"

"Squawk."

"No guardsmen?"

"Squawk."

"No Zaria?"

"Squawk."

"Then they are all undercover..." Sirius sighed. Should they go back? That had been a close call with Moody, far too close. Moody didn't recognize him, but Zaria could have told the Unspeakables.

Buckbeak made several clucking noises under his tongue, his way of trying to get Sirius' attention. "What?"

The hippogriff gave his reply. Sirius rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You do have a point there, ol' boy," he said. "If Zaria had been there, and if she had told security about me, then Mad-Eye Moody should have been warned as well, since he's Dumbledore's security. So either she isn't there and they don't know, or she is there and they do know, or they do know from some other entirely different source I hadn't thought about and she simply isn't there. Or neither of them could be there."

Sirius shook his head. The pronouns were starting to confuse him.

He sighed again. "I'm going back," he declared. "Harry hasn't shown up yet; he could be in trouble."

Buckbeak nodded and spread his wings. "Take care, Buck," Sirius said as the hippogriff launched into the air once more.

Upon his return to the lake, however, Sirius' fears abated. He could see Harry coming in from the other direction as he approached. _Showing up late to the Second Task, eh? _he thought, filled with relief. He better not get any points nicked off.

Sirius checked all about him, then made his way to his spot under the bleachers. Through the tiny slits of light between the seats, he caught a glimpse of Harry skidding to a halt in front of the judges' table. By that time, the other Champions had assembled themselves as well. Sirius moved down to the tighter space near the first row and knelt down on his stomach. Although intermingled with the sounds from the audience, pieces of the conversation at the golden table still slipped through.

"I'm... here..." Harry panted.

"Where have you been?" Percy's voice could be heard distinctly apart from the surrounding din. "The task's about to start!"

"Now, now, Percy!" Bagman jovially reprimanded. "Let him catch his breath!"

Ludo Bagman rose from his seat and led all four to the edge of the lake. He was doing something - placing them along the edge... Damn it all, he couldn't see anything from back here... Sirius squinted his eyes but to no avail.

"Well, all our champions are ready for the second task, which will start on my whistle," Bagman's voice boomed out. He must have put a Sonorus spell on his voice. The audience hushed to silence.

"They have precisely an hour to recover what has been taken from them," Bagman continued.

Taken from them? Sirius pondered. He had no idea what this task was about; Bagman's vague reference wasn't helping.

"On the count of three, then," Bagman ended. "One... two... three!"

The shrill sound of a whistle filled the air. The audience burst forth with wild shouts and applause. The Task had begun.

Sirius could make out Krum's pale backside lowering down towards the water. Fleur's silvery hair sparkled even in the drab sunlight; she was going in as well, followed by Cedric. But what about Harry? A robe stuck out from the bleacher opening and smothered Sirius' face. Bugger! He couldn't make out a thing now!

Sirius shuffled around and strained his ears. Sounds of laughter leaked through to him. What were they laughing about? A particularly loud catcall rang through the air. "Potter stinks!"

What did that prat mean, "Potter stinks?" Sirius growled under his breath. Harry, what are you doing out there?

Soon, the jeering died down, and the audience settled to a contented hum. An occasional comment passed above him and a vendor shouted, "Hot butterbeer, only ten Knuts!" Unfortunately, everything else was a murmur.

Now what was he going to do? Was Harry in the water now? In his robes?

Sirius crawled along until the stands rose higher above him and stood up. With even more care, he snuck along the side of the bleachers and settled down unnoticeably against one end.

Ahead, the grey lake surface stretched out before him.

_What are we standing here for_? he wondered, when the audience gasped. Sirius eagerly raised his head. What did they see? What's going on?

"Ooohh!" exclaimed the crowd.

What? Sirius strained his neck across the water, but saw nothing.

"Both Cedric and Fleur have completed their Bubble-Head Charms," Bagman narrated, his voice on Sonorus. "Krum is still struggling in the shallows. He appears to be trying to transfigure himself."

The crowd cried out again. "Look at that!" Sirius heard from the stands.

This time, Sirius was quick enough to catch it. At one part of the lake, the water frothed and bubbled. Had something just come out of the water? He watched the lake with the audience for several more minutes, waiting expectantly.

"There we have it, folks, it seems like Krum's going to work with what he has - such a shame he can't complete the transformation."

Another spot bubbled up on the left side of the lake. Several clapped; many shouted in amazement.

It was then Sirius realized that the wizards were watching the Second Task by staring at a rippling lake. _Wow,_ he thought. _Now that's entertainment._

Fortunately, he was proven wrong. By observing the lake closely, he noted that there was a film floating over the top like cream on milk. The audience must be watching something move on top of the water. Sirius glanced up at the towering stands. He would have to find a way to climb up them if he wanted to see anything. The bleachers were far too packed for even a dog to muscle his way through them.

A little dejected, Sirius turned around, ready to go back. He had never expected to watch the Second Task anyway. In fact, he shouldn't even be here; every moment he stayed increased his chances of someone finding him out. Still, Sirius glanced over his shoulder. Threats to personal safety seemed to dwarf a bit compared to seeing Harry completing the Second Task, whatever it was.

Then he found her. Zaria sat by the golden table with the judges, who were taking fierce notes and whispering to themselves.

Sirius felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. All regrets about missing the Task slipped his mind. Now he was in a perfectly good position to leave.

He turned around to go behind the stands, but halted. Moody was there again.

Bugger- Sirius backtracked and pressed himself beside the stands. He couldn't cut through there or else the DADA professor would catch him. Yet going in front was not an option either. Sirius was at a stalemate... until he spotted the Labrador heading his way. At last Sirius knew where to go: the other direction.

Zaria caught up with him before he could make a move. Oh damn, what was he going to do? Well, there were only two options: run like the dickens or beat it out. Sirius, of course, chose the latter.

He jumped on her. The two rolled on the ground; Sirius snapped his jaws in her face; she recoiled and darted out from beneath him; he turned around to bite her tail; she whirled quickly, hitting him in the face with her tail; while still dazed, she reached for his neck. He countered her attack with his jaws and the two became locked together, tussling on the ground-

_Ha ha ha!_ Sirius thought with a feeling of derring-do. _Take that! No government agent can stop me! I am Sirius Black! I rise above the law! _

_Bam!_

The law just gave Sirius a ferocious blow that sent him sprawling. He didn't know whether she had smashed her body against his or if her back had grown a spring-back hammer, but either way, the action made Sirius rediscover how hard the ground was in February.

The tussle lengthened. The world spun as they rolled together, snapping and shoving. Weariness overcame him, but he knew that he had to go on. One sign of slack and she could over take him.

It had been a long time since he had got into a scrape like this. Years before, he and Lupin had done this all the time at Hogwarts, and Sirius recalled how fun it had been. But, no, this wasn't fun now, because he was fighting for his life, right? No he wasn't enjoying himself - ouch - a damn bit - oof!

By then, the fighting was going to ridiculous lengths. Every time Sirius wretched her off, Zaria found a way to latch herself on again. On the other hand, he was doing the same thing. The testosterone-fuelled fighting instinct was on and Sirius was drawn in hook, line and sinker.

Zaria's teeth sank into his fur; he jumped to shake her off. Sirius growled, turned his head and snapped at her leg. She let go immediately and threw herself against him. They flopped on the lawn some more. She grabbed his neck and slammed his head down into the ground. He got dirt in his eye - okay, not fun. Not fun at all.

Sirius head-butted her in the side and the two crashed into each other again. _Hell yes! _He said to himself. _I kick tail!_

Zaria bounded up on her paws again and ran. Did she escape? Did he win? _Thump!_

A blow struck his ribcage. Unexpectedly, Sirius found himself shoved against the ground. He had been tipped over and pushed onto his back. Zaria stood over him, paws down on his belly. She blinked triumphantly.

She had pinned him! She had pinned him! He couldn't believe it! Sirius was at least twice her weight and far stronger. Sirius growled and pushed. Well, let's see if she can do it a second time! With a mighty shove, he knocked her off and-

_Flip! Thump!_

Okay, so she had... a little quicker than Sirius had expected. He squirmed fitfully beneath her. He hated being on the bottom.

She rolled her eyes (Sirius hadn't believed that Labradors could do that until that moment) as if confronting an idiot. Then, as if tired of such foolishness, she got up and left. Sirius raised a head. Leaving? She was leaving? She - she couldn't leave! She was supposed to be after him!

Sirius rolled back onto his feet and followed her, puzzled. He cut her off.

_Fight me!_ He barked.

She cocked her head, amused.

_C'mon_, he urged. _Fight me!_

She moved past him. A tiny shadow swept the ground and he raised his head. Buckbeak was turning circles a few hundred miles up in the air. And Sirius knew, even from such distance, that the hippogriff was chuckling.

_It's not like that!_ He wanted to shout. She attacked me...

Sirius shook his head quickly. Grudgingly enough, he could admit it: Zaria wasn't a Ministry officer bent on taking him down...

And he had enjoyed having a scrap with her.

But only a little.

He limped to the judges' table, unafraid of the consequences now. Zaria resumed her place at the judges' table beside Dumbledore's seat. Sirius remained standing and milling around, sniffing the grass like a dumb stray should. Zaria gave him a look that said, _And why are you doing that?_

Offended, Sirius plunked down next to her. Dumbledore was busy writing shorthand on a long scroll and looking over the water. Out of a corner of those half-moon spectacles, Dumbledore got a peek at Sirius, and he swore the old headmaster winked at him. Or was it at Zaria?

Sirius took a moment to have a look at the other judges. He was familiar with all of them but had only read about the foreign headmasters. Next to Dumbledore sat Madame Maxime, a lady of considerable... magnitude. Beside her was Percy, trying to appear very professional but coming off as very inexperienced and quite haughty. Closest to Bagman was Karkaroff, who narrowed his eyes as he made quick little dashes on his scroll. Sirius, in turn, felt the initial suspicion he had fostered for the Durmstrang headmaster, ever since he had learned that he was involved in the tournament. The things he had looked up about him were not very glamorous; indeed, the way Karkaroff ratted on his Death Eater buddies still rubbed Sirius the wrong way. Still, there would be no reason for Karkaroff to plot against Harry... unless he knew something that no one else did...

"Mr. Potter is finally in the water now... Oh my, now this is something we didn't expect!"

Bagman's comment snapped Sirius back into the moment. From this spot, Sirius had a better view of the lake surface and got a spectator's view. Over the water was a translucent image of several viewpoints underwater. The lake surface was divided into four sections, one for each champion. The upper-right hand corner followed Krum, who had partly transfigured himself into a shark (not the most endearing sight). The bottom two in the right and left corners focused on Fleur and Cedric respectively, each with a giant bubble over his or her head. And Harry, in the far left...

Ye gods! Harry had grown gills! And fins, and flippers, all an odd shade of green. What kind of spell had he used? Sirius picked his brain. Must be gillyweed, he reasoned admirably. Wonder how he got hold of that. Never mind that, Harry was manoeuvring more capably than any of those other so-called Champions.

Sirius noticed that each of the champions overlapped each other's viewing spell. He could see Krum's fin in Cedric's square, and Cedric's leg in Fleur's...

Like with the Task before, Bagman started his commentary. "Mr. Krum, Mr. Diggory and Miss Delacour seem to have a truce going on here," he observed. "As Mr. Potter still wallows in the shallows, they're moving in and moving fast."

Hey, hey, what's going on? Sirius growled to himself. A conspiracy, is there? Those other three banding together while Harry's off by himself... _Get your act together, Harry!_ Sirius mentally shouted. _Hurry up!_

As the trio of Champions headed further down, the water grew darker and more ominous. Sirius figured that they must feel safer travelling in a group. But wasn't this supposed to be a race, here? They would all have to ditch each other eventually, or sabotage another's progress. Sirius sniffed. Did he smell some back-stabbing coming on?

They were passing by a low crevice on the lakebed when a long tentacle shot out towards them. It grabbed Cedric by the arm and pulled him toward the dark opening. Krum and Fleur darted away, but not before more tentacles shot out, reaching for their limbs. From within the crevice, an immense, triangular head came forth...

"Look what we have here!" Bagman said grandly. "It seems they have encountered a little problem."

If that was a little problem, then Voldemort was a pink, fluffy bunny. The lake's infamous occupant, the giant squid, crept out of its hiding place and attacked. In defence, the three reached for their wands, shouting; yet from the lakeside, no sound could be heard. Cedric tried avoiding the tentacles, but already, one had grabbed hold of his legs; he was being pulled closer... Fleur struggled, but in vain. More arms clung onto her... Krum tried doing a U-turn, but another tentacle wrapped around his waist. The squid was pulling them in toward the centre, toward its gaping maw, lined with pointed teeth...

Sirius couldn't help but watch Harry plodding steadily through the water far away from the fight scene as the others suffered the squid's wrath. He beamed inwardly. _Yup, that's my godson! _

Meanwhile, Bagman was frantically noting every movement on the squid front.

"Mr. Krum's using his teeth now - oh, what a bite! That's got to hurt! The squid recoils; it's letting him go... and off he swims! But Miss Delacour's in for some trouble; the squid's got her tied down - both arms pinned! Hold on there for a moment... she's casting a spell... Wow, is that a Heat Spell? Underwater?"

Fleur couldn't move anything past her elbows, but her wand arm was pressed firmly against the squid's flesh. Bagman was right to wonder; the wand's tip turned a burnished gold, then its luminescence started building up... The light grew bright and brighter and spread out into a huge orb of flaming green and blue...

"No, it's looks like a Greek Fireball!" Bagman corrected himself. "The intensity! Shield your eyes, folks!"

Fleur shut her eyes tight and clenched her teeth. The Greek Fireball grew as large as a Quaffle; alarmed, the squid was juggling its tentacles, trying to loosen its grip on her. Then, she let it go...

The squid writhed in agony as the fireball slammed into the centre of its head. The monster tumbled back, releasing both Fleur and Cedric. Cedric did a series of rollovers in the water; Fleur was pushed in the opposite direction-

Bagman grimaced in sympathy for the giant squid as it crawled back into its hiding place. "Ooohhh! Looks like the French sure know how to fight!"

Sirius was only listening to this with half an ear. By then, Harry had made it to the merpeople village. Sirius saw the gigantic merman statue tower over the boy, with the swarms of mermen around it. They weren't attacking, however; they seemed to be monitoring the event as well. Sirius wondered if some had kept an eye out for the poor squid.

"Mr. Potter is ahead now," Bagman continued, "and is at an attempting to free his hostage..."

Harry was tugging at one of the mermen's spears. The merman jerked back, its mouth gaping. There was no audio with the viewing spells so Sirius could only guess at what was going on. He caught a glance at the statue and saw the hostages tied around it. Two he recognized as Harry's friends: Ron and Hermione. The other pair was unfamiliar: a young girl with silver blonde hair - her resemblance to Fleur wasn't missed -, another young Asian girl - must be Cedric's girlfriend. Who's Harry going for? Sirius mused.

Then Harry took a stone from the floor and began hacking at the ropes. Soon, he freed Ron. Harry turned to reach for Hermione, but several merman pushed him away. Some had their scaly heads thrown back in what appeared to be laughter.

Sirius heard an indignant noise next to him. He glanced at Zaria, who stood posed as if standing in as the poster pooch for Our Dog. Was she insulting Harry? He bared his teeth and she tipped her head toward a Slytherin-occupied section of the bleachers, who were joining the mermen in their glee. Oh, the comment was directed at them. Sirius dropped his defensive look and felt an embarrassed warmth rise up in his face.

"Now his hostage is free, yet... Mr. Potter refuses to leave!" The former Quidditch player began to muse aloud. "He has less than fifteen minutes to reach the surface... Could it be that Mr. Potter isn't aware of the time?"

Some whispered comments among the judges turned Sirius' ear to them.

" 'Arry seems to be terribly aggressive wiz ze mermen down zair," Madame Maxime said in a hushed tone. "Would it 'ave been best if ze Champions knew zey were monitoring ze event?"

Bagman made a quick wave at his throat and said in a normal whisper, "Potter's probably worried about the others." He gestured to a large hourglass on the table, which was keeping the time. The sand was over three-fourths gone. "But he knows that there's a time limit."

"That's my brother down there," Percy muttered. "He'd better know."

"I wouldn't be surprised if he was holding out for someone else," Karkaroff sneered. Sirius glared and felt the need to bite off the man's kneecap. Zaria gave him a swift _whap_ with her tail, cutting the thought short.

"I'm sure whatever Harry chooses, it is for the best," Dumbledore said. "We are judges, but we should not judge until all the facts are known."

Bagman gave a nod in agreement and cast the Sonorus spell again.

"Now let's see where the others are... Cedric is moving ahead, with Krum trailing fifty meters back... but what has become of Miss Delacour?"

Over in her corner, the viewing spell revealed a mass of weeds. Fleur gingerly picked herself through them, tossing away the offensive plants each time they brushed against her. However, a pair of slitted eyes poked out from a clump behind her.

"Oh, Miss Delacour better watch where she's going!"

Unfortunately, she did not. The grindylow jumped on her trailing robes and yanked, hard. Fleur let out a gasp of surprise just as another grindylow sprang from the depths. It latched onto her sleeve, pulling down.

Sirius didn't know whether grindylows were common where she was from, but from what he could guess, Fleur didn't have much experience with them. Their repulsiveness took her back; she flailed her limbs, trying to shake them off. Yet the more she struggled, the more they clung on. One jumped upon the bubble around her head and dug its claws in-

_Pop!_

The audience gasped.

Bagman rose from his chair, narrating with bent knees. "Miss Delacour's in for some trouble now! She can't breathe! She's at the mercy of the entire colony! Dear Merlin, someone help-!"

Madame Maxime, too, jumped from her chair with such force that it toppled over. "MADEMOISELLE!"

Fleur swished her wand helplessly in the water; she couldn't speak; she couldn't move. The grindylows were out by the dozen now, jumping and grabbing any part they could. One had its webbed claws clamped over Fleur's mouth; a spray of bubbles issued forth as she tried to scream. A few moments later and no sign of the Beauxbatons student could be recognized, replaced by a mass of writhing bodies sinking into the weeds.

Sirius' heart quickened with sympathy and worry as he witnessed mutely, now standing on all four paws. Behind him, spectators filled the air with exclamations. Madame Maxime made as if to rush to the lake's edge and throw herself in, but Dumbledore grasped her arm and said shouted something incomprehensible toward the lake. It sounded like water erupting from a geyser; Sirius realized it was Mermish.

At his call, several scaly heads popped up to the surface. Dumbledore make several gurgling sounds in the back of his throat. Three of the mermen nodded and disappeared into the lake, tridents in hand.

"There we have it! The reinforcements have arrived!" Bagman's voice burst out in relief.

The mermen swam onto the scene. Tackling the swarm before them, they stabbed randomly, shoving off grindylows. Soon, the faded light blue of Fleur's robes and her silvery head came into view. The water became filled with floating bodies of dead or injured grindylows. At the sight of their fallen comrades, the others still attacking kicked off and disappeared into the weeds. Fleur floated limply with the current, very pale and unconscious.

Madame Maxime stuffed her fist in her mouth, wide-eyed as she watched the merman carry Fleur back up to the surface. Bagman's voice sounded uncertain as he said, "Miss Delacour is safe now... Looks like medical attention is being called up."

Madame Pomfrey rushed over, bearing blankets and several bottles. "Let me see to her," she said in a no-nonsense voice. "Poor girl - half-drowned! What did I tell them? I said that the grindylow colony was too dangerous! But they never listen! Never!"

The Beauxbatons headmistress was already by Fleur's side, helping to wrap her up in an enormous blanket. Gingerly parting the girl's lips, Madame Pomfrey poured a hot substance from one of the bottles down her throat and gently shook her shoulder. After a few moments, Fleur's eyelids fluttered open and she sat up, coughing water. Around them, the crowd sent up a raging cheer.

"That a girl!" Bagman praised. "A few grindylows won't beat her out!" As Fleur was led away into the medical tent, Bagman continued his commentary. "Mr. Diggory is arriving at the village. He's shouting something to Harry - trying to knock some sense into him I'd wager. There, he cuts the ropes to his hostage and off he goes!"

Cedric kicked up a froth as he and the girl headed up. Sirius glanced at the hourglass worriedly. Time was dwindling down to the last grain. Why didn't Harry hurry up?

"Mr. Krum trails behind. What's this? Harry hands him a stone to cut the ropes with. What a nice favour; too bad he can't show some more concern about his own affairs!" Bagman frowned and looked to the hourglass. "Only one minute left..."

As the seconds passed, Sirius' impatience grew into frustration. What was the matter with the boy? He was running out of time!

It was now coming down to the wire. A few members in the audience started giving a countdown that spread until the entire stand was shouting.

"...thirty... twenty-nine... twenty-eight..."

Cedric swam frantically upwards, holding his hostage tightly by the waist...

"...twenty-seven... twenty-six..."

Krum flapped his finned arms through the water; Hermione's hair got in his face and he hastily pushed it aside, speeding up...

"... twenty-five... twenty-four... twenty-three..."

"Will they make it in time?" the announcer cried out with needless melodrama. "And Mr. Potter's still down there! What the-? What is he doing? Mr. Potter has his wand out; he's confronting other mermen!"

Upon the water, the translucent image of Harry rippled as he flourished his wand at the underwater villagers. Fleur's sister remained slouched against the statue as Ron drifted aimlessly... Harry was yelling at the merman, threatening them! _Oh, this isn't good... _Sirius thought.

"...fifteen... fourteen... thirteen..."

"What is going on down there?" Bagman's voice rose up excitedly. "Mr. Potter drives the monitors away from the scene! What a breaking of Tournament rules! He's taking Miss Gabrielle Delacour _and_ Mr. Ron Weasley!"

_Harry, who cares about the other hostage_! Sirius mentally cursed, despairing. He wasn't going to make it!

Harry was finally moving toward the surface. But now, Cedric was almost at the top, and Krum wasn't too far behind...

"The clock is ticking!" Bagman said, giddily. Despite the fact there was no clock, the audience gave a roar in agreement. The counting was louder now, blasting through Sirius' eardrums.

"... twelve... eleven..."

"Gabrielle!" Fleur came bursting out of the medical tent, prompted by the uproar. Now revived, she was in a state of pure panic. "Gabrielle!" she screamed, heading for the water. Madame Pomfrey ran after her, shouting, "Get back here young lady!"

"Non! Mademoiselle!" Madame Maxime, who had returned to the judges´ table, left it again and took Fleur by both arms. In a fit of disobedience, the student fought her headmistress, squirming and shouting in French.

"...ten... nine... eight..."

The former Quidditch player now joined in with the crowd, slamming a fist down with every descending number.

"...seven... six... five..."

Feet stomped in rhythm; hands clapped too. Sirius' tail thumped in time, but his heart headed in the same direction as the grindylows. Harry was going to lose...

As the final seconds came, the crowd yelled at the top of its lungs.

"...FOUR... THREE... TWO... ONE-!"

"And the hour is up!" Bagman exclaimed, as the last grain tumbled over. "None of the Champions have completed the Task!"

The noise was deafening as the audience expressed its disappointment. Something close to a death kneel came from Fleur's throat and she became even more incensed. "_Laissez-moi partir!"_

Just then, Cedric's head broke through the water. His bubble popped, and he shouted, gasping for air. "I'm here!" he said. "I'm here!" The crowd erupted into a wild frenzy.

Exhaustedly, Cedric kicked toward the beach, hugging his girlfriend. As wizards and witches danced in the bleachers, Madame Pomfrey retreated back to the tent, only to come out with more blankets and bottles. Soon, Krum's shark visage emerged as well, and the crowd doubled its joy.

The two Champions and their hostages assembled on shore as Madame Pomfrey fussed over them, passing out bottles. "Pneumonia!" she said. "You're all going to come down with pneumonia!"

Both Hermione and the other girl stirred awake, rubbing their eyes and stretching.

"Herm-own-ninny," Krum welcomed gruffly. "How are you?"

"Ahhh!" Hermione said, giving a start. "Viktor, your face!"

He was still standing on the beach as a shark-man. "Oh. I apologise." Embarrassed, Krum fumbled with his wand and his distorted features reverted back into their human form.

The other girl wrapped her arms around her rescuer. "Cedric!" she murmured, burying her head into his wet shoulder.

"Cho." Cedric clung to her warmly.

"None of that now!" Madame Pomfrey pushed them apart. "Blankets, both of you!"

Despite the happiness radiating from both the stands and the Task participants, the judges´ table remained quite sober. Ludo Bagman was quick to explain. "Harry Potter still hasn't risen," he said. "And the spell cast upon the hostages only lasts little more than an hour! If he can't get them up in time..."

The audience swiftly adopted the same attitude upon these words. On the water, Harry's image was still striving upwards. Mermen referees were hesitantly trailing him. Harry staggered under the weight of his two companions. Sounds of concern came up from the crowd. The small group on the shore focused on the water as well, all tight-lipped and shivering. Only Fleur hadn't calmed down; with the silence, her shouts became louder.

"_Je dois la sauver!"_ she begged Madame Maxime. "_Ma soeur!"_

_He has to make it,_ Sirius thought urgently. His paws itched to head to the beachside, but Zaria moved in front of him, blocking his way. He stuck his head over her back and watched helplessly. _C´mon Harry! C´mon!_

According to the reflection upon the lake, Harry was kicking his way to the top; he was straining against the weight of his friends; one look back at the mermen behind him and he got the wrong impression, moving at an even more frantic pace; he didn´t know that they were there to help, not hurt... Sirius had his heart in his throat. _C´mon, Harry, c´mon..._

The world held its breath.

_Splash!_

"He made it!" Bagman yelled.

Merman heads bobbed up around him as they burst out into song. The other mermen echoed on shore joined in, filling the air with their screechy voices. All the judges walked on shore to meet them; the bleachers exploded into celebration; all the noise and emotion were making Sirius light-headed...

Zaria was poking his side with her muzzle. Sirius shot her an irritated look. What now?

Zaria moved out toward the castle. If she wanted to leave then fine with her, but Sirius wasn't going to move! He wanted to congratulate Harry himself!

Dumbledore came back to the table as if wanting to fetch his scroll. Casually, he whispered out of the corner of his mouth, "Zaria, would you please escort Mr. Black to my office?"

He turned to Zaria, who now had her tail in his face. Why of course... By Circe's wand, how stupid had he been!

Sirius gave in and followed Zaria toward Hogwarts. He gave one lingering glance behind him. Dumbledore had returned to the beach and he and Bagman were helping Harry out of the water; Percy dragged a protesting Ron to the beach ("Get off, Percy, I'm all right!"); Fleur embraced Gabrielle and sobbed into her sister's dripping hair, saying:

"It was ze grindylows... zey attacked me... oh Gabrielle, I thought... I thought..."

He hesitated for a few moments, hoping that Harry would catch a glimpse of him, but Zaria prodded him on.

The two made their way into the castle and arrived at the entrance to Dumbledore's office: a large stone gargoyle blocked the way. Sirius started at it wonderingly. What was the password for this? Well, neither one of them knew it, much less had the vocal ability to say it...

"Fftt," said Zaria.

The gargoyle hopped aside.

Sirius blinked, astounded, as Zaria stepped onto the moving stairwell.

They were carried upstairs. At the end, the study door with the brass knocker had been left ajar. Zaria nudged her nose and pushed it open. Sirius looked around the circular office. It had been years since he had entered it, yet nothing seemed to have changed. Above his head, the portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses lined the wall. A few of them observed him curiously. Self-consciously, Sirius settled down by the glowing fireplace. Zaria was busy dragging a heavy tome off the bottom of a nearby shelf. It thumped on the floor; she pushed its cover open and gestured for Sirius to come over.

The page before them was blank. Yet as soon as Sirius focused on it, he could see a tiny trail of dots running across the page. Ellipses.

Zaria titled her head. Immediately, tight script typed onto the page.

...**_Speak,_** it said.

Intrigued, Sirius looked down. What?

**_Speak..._** repeated the page.

**_Hello?_** attempted Sirius. **_Testing, testing, one, two, three..._**

**_You´re wasting ink_**, the page said.

**_Sorry._**

Zaria´s eyes smiled. **_Good human,_** said the page.

**_I see now..._** Sirius said. **_Was this why you kept saying "ftt" to me? That was the password to Dumbledore's Office?_**

**_That and "Cockroach Clusters_**, replied the page. **_But the Master thought "Fttt" would be easier for you to say as a dog. Or to comprehend. I forget which._**

Sirius stared her down. He had liked it better when she possessed a one-word vocabulary.

**_I thought we had an understanding here_**, the page continued**_. Didn't Buckbeak tell you?_**

**_Buckbeak?_** Sirius exclaimed. **_When did you ever talk to Buckbeak?_**

**_Well, he was out squirrel-hunting only a few weeks ago when I found him..._**

**_Oh, squirrels. Figures._**

**_I believe we had a conversation in which I said I wanted to meet you. He told me about your hunt for information, but when I tried getting some to you, you ran off. I couldn't find you since._**

So that what she had meant when she offered him the newspaper. The feeling of stupidity was growing.

**_You shouldn't trust that hippogriff with anything, _**Sirius told her. **_He has a very... bestial mind. Not to offend, but he might have thought you wanted to meet me for another reason._**

**_And what would that be?_** Zaria glanced at him curiously.

**_"Ftt" must mean something different in Hippogriffian,_** Sirius thought pointedly.

Now it was Zaria's turn to blink, stunned. **_And... And what did you assume?_** she finally asked.

**_That you were a highly classified Ministry official going to the lengths of Avalon and back to root me out and feed my soul to Dementors_**, Sirius said simply. **_As you can see, my companion and I have drastically different perspectives._**

**_I see..._**

Before she could comment further, the door to the office opened.

"Hello Sirius, Zaria," Dumbledore greeted as he strode into the room. "I am very happy to inform you both of Harry's success at the Tournament. I apologise, Sirius, about the abrupt withdrawal, but I had to be sure I had a chance to speak with you in private."

He reached down for the book and gathered it in his arms. Sirius still directed his thoughts toward it and could spot the printed script forming across the page.

**_No problem, Professor, _**Sirius said**_. If I only knew Zaria had worked with you, things might have not been so difficult. How did you know I was around anyhow?_**

"Ah, well Zaria did report your strange behaviour to me," Dumbledore explained. "A large black dog picking up old newspapers is something you don't see often. I suspected something, but it was only when she told me about meeting a hippogriff in the Forbidden Forest did I prove my hypothesis was proven correct."

The Labrador trotted up to Dumbledore. He scratched her ears fondly. "You could say that she is my Guide Dog of sorts." He gave a small smile to himself, as if taking part in an inside joke. The headmaster then whispered something in her ear and Zaria gave a quick nod to him, a cool glance to Sirius, and exited the room. The door closed behind her.

"We had a correspondence," Dumbledore added quietly, "but it has been awhile since I have last heard from you."

**_Yeah, it had been awhile... a couple months..._** Sirius bowed his head in shame. **_I was preoccupied, _**he managed to say.**_ I know that's a real crummy excuse, but..._**

"I assumed that if we were ever cut off, it would be for a good reason," Dumbledore replied. "I believe Professor Lupin knows you are here then?"

**_Actually, I was hoping he had contacted you._** A strange stifled feeling filled his throat; if he had had to speak aloud, he wouldn't have been able to**_. I've had no idea where he went since mid-January._**

"No idea at all?" His face turned grave again. "He has been through the gauntlet in the past few months."

Dumbledore played with the end of his beard. In the bright daylight, Sirius noticed the growing number of wrinkles on the headmaster's features. His eyes were still bright and twinkling, as always, but there seemed to be a weary cast on his face that pulled it down. Sirius had never realized how old Dumbledore was becoming until that moment. Somehow, the thought frightened him.

"I have read some of it here and there in the papers. It's quite sensational, what our former DADA professor has done..." He pulled out a drawer and took out a few newspaper clippings. "I, too, keep my own stash," he winked at Sirius. "It's nice to keep track of old alumni."

There on the desk lay all the significant articles about both of them, from "Wizard Werewolf Takes Muggle Girl as Pup" to Sirius' own "Black Evades Ministry Again." Along with those were the articles about the December Islington murders, when the werewolf Jarohnen Ianikit had used Lupin's wand to torture five Ministry officers to death. As far as Sirius knew, the Russian wolf was sentenced to the Sentient Magical Creatures Penitentiary for life.

One of the titles caught his eye. "Muggle Girl Found Shot in Brighton." He sniffed at it. She lived. Ye gods, she lived...

"Perhaps you have a clearer version of events?" Dumbledore inquired.

Sirius drew himself away. **_Would it be easier if I change back?_** he asked. **_Can we risk it?_**

"Oh yes. I should have asked before if you felt comfortable. My office is secure enough."

In a flick of a unicorn's tail, Sirius was his human self again, sitting in one of the deep-seated leather armchairs by the fireplace. "I... I don't know how to start, really..." Sirius said. He brushed off his nervousness with a laugh. Suddenly it felt like he was eleven years old again, sitting in Dumbledore's office for sneaking off of Hogwarts grounds to test his brand-new Comet Chaser.

"I suggest at the beginning," Dumbledore said kindly. A small candy appeared out from his robe sleeve. "Sherbet lemon?"

Sirius cracked a grin. "Why not?" He accepted the treat and felt immediately more at ease. "I'm pretty sketchy on the details," he admitted. "Remus was never really open about these things. But from what I know, it all started in October, when he went off and got drunk the night of the full moon..."

Then, quite suddenly, it all came spilling out. Sirius had never realized how much he knew until he voiced it all aloud. He told Dumbledore about Mary's making and how she and Lupin had fled to London. Sirius didn't know much about the Werewolf Safehouse, but as soon as he mentioned it, Dumbledore nodded his head knowingly and said, "Madame de Chien-Loup has a very generous reputation. I'm sure they must have done well there."

Then Sirius went on with his capture by the Ministry while trying to contact Harry through the fireplace. The memory of returning to Azkaban made his insides shudder, and Dumbledore didn't comment when he skipped over the details. Instead, Sirius focused on how Lupin had covered for him at the Triwizard Tournament; that information made the old headmaster arch a bushy white eyebrow.

"Croaker never informed me about this," he said slowly.

"Probably the bugger was nursing a bit of wounded pride for letting Lupin escape," Sirius said. "I'm sure Moody would have mentioned it to you."

Dumbledore scratched his beard. "In fact, Sirius, he hasn't. This never reached the papers, either; perhaps that was Croaker's doing." He was silent for a few moments, with a look of deep thought. Sirius wanted to ask whether Croaker had been around at the Second Task, but kept his silence on the subject. He wasn't sure whether to proceed with his story until Dumbledore shook his head and said, "Excuse me for my wandering thoughts. Go on."

Sirius hesitated, wondering whether to tell Dumbledore about Moody's odd behaviour. At the First Task, Lupin had noted that Moody was concocting what appeared to be a Polyjuice Potion in his office when Lupin spied on him; Sirius had dismissed it, but now was unsure to hold it back from Dumbledore.

"Professor, Remus told me that Moody carried around this hip flask which smelled like the Polyjuice Potion." He left the statement hanging in mid-air.

Another moment of silence. "And what do you think of this, Mr. Black?"

"I assumed it was a potion for arthritis."

"That's what Moody told me," Dumbledore agreed.

Any remaining suspicion against Moody vanished.

Sirius then charged on, talking about how Lupin and Mary had escaped the Safehouse afterwards with officers from both the MLES and the RMC on their tails. He referred to those articles on the desk about the Islington murders and said, "Well, now you know how Ianikit got a hold of Remus' wand."

"And the Ministry still possesses it," the headmaster noted.

When telling of the incident at the fisherman's hovel, he laughed aloud at the Lupin's punch to his jaw ("The man could certainly throw a nasty uppercut," Sirius added). Then, the weeks of relative peace and happiness were abridged as well; it hurt too much to speak of it.

"But he loved her," Sirius said. "Mary was a cute kid... and she rubs off on you after awhile. That article... about her... can I see it?"

"You're more than welcome to." Dumbledore handed over the newspaper. Sirius read every word, absorbing the information into his brain. For all this time he had thought Lupin was a killer... And he had even told him so... The girl was safe, but Lupin was still missing...

After a bit, Sirius lowered the article and suppressed a sigh, kicking out at the edge of the rug. He missed them both, but Lupin more than anything. If only he had another chance now, if only to take back for his harsh words... That he feared admitting aloud, so he hurried on. "The girl always made him smile. You would have liked her, Professor, if you had met her."

"I'm sure I would have," replied Dumbledore.

The account about the full moon on the beach, however, was drawn out as heavily as possible, because he knew that was when something in Lupin had snapped.

"And I saw that look in his eye," Sirius said. "When he headed off to get Kevin Grisham. There was murder in his eyes. Absolute murder." He shuddered. "And then I knew if I didn't stop him, the wolf would kill him. And Mary... geez, she was with him all the way. And she was Kevin's daughter! I had twisted dreams for nights after that they succeeded and we were eating the man's entrails right on the beach..." Sirius laughed again, a hollow one filled with guilt.

Dumbledore folded his hands on the desk, saying nothing. Sirius wiped his brow, although he was not sweating, and went on. "I tried my best to stop him, but it was Croaker who really saved the day, ironically enough." He continued with their rescue by Buckbeak and the morning after.

"Remus was really out of it. It was like he had spent the last day and a half smoking and drinking tequila. Horribly weak and sweating... Vomiting like mad... He kept muttering in his sleep and talking out loud... Don't know what he dreamt, but they must have been some pretty disturbing things. When he woke up, he was all groggy and concerned for Mary, obviously, and worried about escaping. I thought all he needed was a few more hours and then we'd leave Brighton for someplace else. He pushed me out of the room practically, reassuring me that he'd be fine. And... and I thought so too..."

"But when I returned..." Sirius couldn't bring himself to say what he had found. The blood that was everywhere... and her face... so innocent and tranquil, like a porcelain doll's...

"He shot her, Professor," Sirius said bluntly. "He shot her in the fisherman's hovel with his gun. It brought back too many memories..."

Dumbledore sympathized. "That is enough, Sirius," he said gently. A knock came from the door. Sirius jumped, alarmed, but Dumbledore raised a hand. "Only some refreshments. Come in," he said.

The door opened, and a house elf, pushing a giant cart stacked with food and drink, entered. "Dobby do as you say, sir," he chirped. "Two flasks of butterbeer, one roast turkey, one basket of buttered rolls, seven meat pastries, plenty mash potatoes, and black forest cake with milk."

Sirius had his mouth ajar. When he noticed his drool hitting the floor, he hastily closed it and wiped his mouth. The smells coming from that cart were more than he could bear. He was so excited by the prospect of eating that the fact the house elf was wearing rainbow-coloured suspenders over a bright orange and blue striped shirt totally slipped his mind.

"Thank you Dobby," Dumbledore said cheerfully. He reached into his pocket and took out a coin purse decorated with falling stars. Several stars hit the rug with a high, whizzing sound and burnt to specks of ash as Dumbledore removed several sickles from the pouch. "I believe this should cover it all," he said, handing the house elf the money. "Plus a little extra for such quick service."

Sirius was about to rip off a turkey leg for himself when he did a double-check. A house elf getting paid?

The house elf jumped with joy. "Oh, Professor Dumbledore is too kind! Too kind! Dobby does not know what to say!"

"Good work should always be rewarded," Dumbledore said kindly. "Now if you would please..."

"Yes, good professor!" Dobby skipped out of the office and shut the door.

Sirius bit into a leg of turkey with great relish. For the next few minutes, Sirius gorged himself, not even recalling the headmaster's presence until he had finished off a good portion of the meat pies and both drumsticks. He then raised his head with a blush and tried starting up conversation again.

"That house elf's something you don't see everyday," he commented, chewing. He gnawed on the turkey bone, thought about throwing it away, decided to give it to Buckbeak and placed it back on the silver tray.

"Dobby's quite the character," Dumbledore agreed. He returned to the subject at hand, saying, "Now I know you've been preoccupied the last few weeks, but I'm sure you'll find the time to write."

"Anything I find out," Sirius promised, taking a swing of butterbeer. "Or if Harry should say anything..." He paused. "Hold on a moment." From the inside of his tattered robes, he took out Harry's last letter to him, about his encounter with Snape and Mad-Eyed Moody. "This was from awhile ago," he said. "But if you'd like to know..."

"Thank you." Dumbledore put Harry's letter into his desk drawer. "Would you like any more?" he asked graciously, referring to the over-loaded cart.

"Well..." Sirius looked at it thoughtfully. "I wouldn't want to waste any of Dobby's hard work," he replied, "And I did promise Buckbeak I'd get something other than pine cones on the way back up..."

"I'll pack up the rest and send it by Owl Post," Dumbledore winked. "All in smaller packages of course."

"Great. If Pigwidgeon leads, they'll get to me sooner or later." Sirius brushed the crumbs off his robes. "Thank you Professor," he said, giving his warmest smile in weeks. "It's nice seeing you again."

"The feeling is quite reciprocal."

Sirius couldn't help adding, "And if you ever hear from Remus...?"

"You will be the first to know," said Dumbledore. He waved his wand and the door opened again, with Zaria standing in the doorway. She cocked her head to the side and titled one floppy ear up, making an inquisitive noise.

"Hey." Sirius waved before reverting back to dog form. Zaria blinked in a way words could not express.

"If you have any troubles, don't hesitate to send a letter of your own," Dumbledore ended.

Feeling full and in much better spirits, Sirius gave a wag of his tail and left.

Chapter 19

Claire didn't feel like doing this. She had a headache and was exhausted from the night before. For some unknown reason, she had woken near one and lain there, until daybreak, restless and in pain. Damn medication. If only they would prescribe more morphine instead of the other brand of painkillers she took. Only morphine could relieve that torture she was in; though she had only used it during the full moon, Claire couldn't help thinking about daily dosages of it. Bernard, the worried fool, had given her too much the first full moon in Nice. Yet it had been bliss; it had been heaven; she could hear golden trumpets in her ears. Certainly, everything else she had tried hadn't worked as wonderfully as that drug.

It was difficult not to think of relief at this hour, when she was at her worst. Always at the third hour of physical therapy did exhaustion seep into her bones.

She sat at the leg press in the corner of the rehabilitation room, a large space filled with exercise equipment and weights. A set of three heavy-cushioned beds sat in the corner. Cold sun came from the large, open windows, which were framed with bright green curtains. The atmosphere felt very sterile; Claire thought her very presence contaminated the air around her.

As she arranged herself on the slanted chair, her physical therapist propped her leg up against the pedals. The machine was set at 5 kilos.

"Now push."

Claire gripped the handlebars on either side of the chair and pushed. She pushed with all the ability she could muster. She thought, _Don't be stupid, Claire; don't be stupid and stop; don't be stupid like you were before; you can do this don't be stupid; you can do this you can do this don't be that fool you were don't be that fool you were just do it do it DO IT!_

She could feel her entire body freeze up. Her arms tightened, her back pressed against the smooth vinyl, her diaphragm contracted and held. And the dead nerves in her leg could be felt and her pulse pounded through her head and the power pushed down and out toward her legs and she screamed with breathless fury, _Move! By the spirits, MOVE!_

The weight inched forward, straightening out her knees. Miniscule threads of feeling tingled through her thighs down to her calves. Claire collapsed back on the mat. She had done it. Now she had to do it again nine more times.

Her legs were learning how to function all over again. Her muscles and bones had healed over and worked fine, but the nerves were almost dead. She could feel down until her upper thigh; the rest was like lead. At times, little pinpricks stabbed at her knees and occasionally her toes, and the doctors said that was a good sign.

At night, she dreamt that she actually had lost her legs and crawled, on her hands and elbows, with heavy iron weights attached to her waist. Other times, she dreamed that she was simply running, running through the rocky crags and steep slopes near her childhood home, the Castle Bisclavret. And the chill mountain air would fill her lungs to bursting and the ground felt solid and warmed by the sun. When she woke from those dreams, Claire would try to swing herself out of bed, forgetting about her brace and fall, clumsily, to the floor.

It was horribly embarrassing when she did this. She always managed to pull herself up before Fifi Dubois came to lift her. Bernard, who considered the falls preventable accidents, suggested getting guardrails for her bed. In return, Claire gave him the look of death.

Lifting with her arms was so much easier. Over the last few weeks, Claire had built herself until she could lift a little more than her body weight. Sometimes, she would trail her finger along the growing firmness in her upper arms and feel young again.

If only the rest of her could be just as strong.

"_Bien_." the physical therapist praised. "_Tres bien, Madame._" Whenever she said that, Claire always expected a little pat on the head too, or a gold star to put on her forehead. Dr. Manette was a ray of sunshine whose cheerfulness, frankly, annoyed Claire to no end. Her large eyes reminded her of a cow and her compliments sounded like one lowing in the fields. At times, her overflowing happiness dripped like thick, choking molasses. Claire wanted to slaughter her.

She gritted her teeth as the therapist helped set up her leg again.

This Muggle thought she had fallen down the stairs. Everything was reduced into much simpler terms because of it.

Thus, Dr. Manette would never completely understand why Claire's injury couldn't improve. After a few weeks, Claire´s progress was so rapid that she had predicted that after a year Claire could try to walk. Then, a couple of weeks later, Claire had come back twice as weak than before. "What had happened?" the physical therapist had said in a sing-song voice. "We had so much success ..."

Claire knew full well what had happened. The full moon.

During surgery following the accident, the wizard doctors had replaced part of her spine with two rods implanted into her back. Yet her body rejected such foreign objects every full moon. In trying to heal itself, her body only worsened her injury by trying to eject the rods straight out of her back during transformation. The same process happened after the full moon as well, with her human body trying to re-formulate a spine that was no longer there and could not be there.

The implications with her artificial hip were even worse. Her greatest fear was waking up after transformation missing half a pelvis - or even worse, with an abstract hunk of bloody metal sticking out of her body. It took all the Muggle medicines and magical potions available to keep her safe and sane during this period of time.

She had a suspicion that if she had surgery to remove all this wizard gadgetry from her body and immediately went through transformation, her body could fix itself, or at least repair her back.

Any requests about this were met with hesitant and pitiful looks. The body can heal itself, but whole body parts can't be regenerated! If you dare act upon this whim, Madame, the possibilities-! And the doctors would shake their heads to themselves. How desperate this poor werewolf must be to propose such an option!

"Again."

And while she strained her entire will to move another 5 kilos, Claire silently cursed Dr. Manette for her gooey voice full of praise and the doctors for not agreeing with her surgery idea and her brother Bernard for treating her like a helpless inferior. And of course, she thought of her friends, who she didn't curse at all.

Claire hadn't heard a word from the Freedom Hounds since she had sent them the letter revealing her spell books' location, which left a whole variety of options to what might have happened. Jarohnen might be free at this very moment. Or he might as well be dead. Over two months had passed since he had been sent to the most guarded cellblock in the Kennel. No wolf ever lasted that long with Dementors.

What shades of the past Jarohnen would be facing was beyond her imagination. He never talked about his experiences in detail; the closest he had got was that brief monologue he gave Remus in the aftermath of the Safehouse sweep. And Claire always suspected there was more.

What if one was bombarded by memories of sadness over and over again? What happens when one forgets the sound of laughter, or how a smile is formed? What is the result when one is dragged through the pits of hell and back?

"You seem distracted today. Is anything wrong?"

Oh, thank you, Dr. Obvious. Claire said, irritably, "Nothing. I had no sleep last night."

"Was it your back?"

"Non..." Claire sighed. "I'm not sure what it was..." she paused, then started again. "Have you ever woken up from a deep slumber with such a start that you knew something was wrong? Last night, I was fine - I don't think I was even dreaming - when a horrible feeling struck me. Something like grief, but not crying, and I woke up not knowing why."

The physical therapist pondered for a moment. "My cousin had a feeling like that once," she replied. "She was taking a little nap one afternoon and woke up with a knot in her throat. And that very same hour her husband got into an awful roll-over while driving home from work."

"Was he all right?"

"In the end. He was one of my patients. He had a friend in the car, though, who died."

Could it be Jarohnen? A flighty alarm like a sparrow's warning went off in her chest. She swallowed hard and forced it back.

"Oh." Claire shook her head. "It is nothing then," she said, keeping a light voice. "I don't believe in death omens."

He was dead.

His skin, speckled with ash, was grey and his limps lay sprawled. Sweat long dried plastered his hair to his forehead. His head was turned to the side with his eyes open, glazed and expressionless, observing another world. His lips were parted slightly, as if laughing softly. Only a corpse could lie like Douglas Ripley did, there on the concrete floor of the Incinerator.

Or at least that's what Lottie Gordon had thought.

For Douglas lived, or else Lottie would be in a morgue and not by his bedside. She didn't know why she was here; wait, maybe she did. As her mother always said, "The best thing yu kin dae for a body is tae mak sure they dun wake oop alone in a strange place." Lottie never forgot her mother's advice; it was the only thing she had left of her.

Douglas breathed shallowly on the hospital cot at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. It had been a close call; Mo told her that he should be lying in a bed narrower than this one. Lottie had come down to the clean room later, looking for her co-worker, but the stoker was the one who had found him, when he returned down below to finish up his rounds. Miraculously, the emergency anti-venom he gave him had worked in the nick of time, and Douglas' heart had jumpstarted as if it had never skipped a beat. Afterwards, they had had Wilbur help Apparate him to the hospital. Lottie had tagged along, just to make sure her friend got there all right. Big Anes usually skimped on health care for a friendless Squib.

She did consider Douglas her friend, even though he the most curious man she had ever met. Lottie was a lassie who considered everyone to be a friend of hers to some degree, even if he wasn't very open about it. Ralph Connor, for instance, had cursed her existence every night she'd known him, but that wasn't because he hated her guts; it was because Ralph had an irksome temperament. Even that time when he had tried to push her out of the window while she was mucking out the nests - hey, that wasn't a murder attempt; he was just a bit cranky.

But Dougie... She didn't know what to make of him. At certain times, he was a perfectly agreeable fellow: polite, courteous, and devoted to the art of janitorial work. Lottie had never seen another man as interested in the building as she was. He had often asked her questions about Wilbur and any of the other guards there - and she hadn't withheld herself from answering. After all, she did pretty much know everyone who worked the night shifts at the Edinburgh branch. Douglas made many inquires about the structure of the building too, something Lottie prided herself in knowing. She had given Douglas the entire floor plan for him to use, but still he had had questions she couldn't answer. Why, what a peculiar Squib he was!

Other times, there seemed to be another side to him that Lottie wasn't familiar with. She knew that there was something... off-centre about him. His talking sounded like a real thinker at times, like his parents had sent him off to learn with the Muggles. Some Squibs she knew spoke all high-style because they went to Muggle school. But Lottie never would have wanted to go there; she may not have magic, but she wouldn't lower herself by associating with their kind.

Occasionally, when Douglas wasn't aware of it, she would watch him. Not an hour passed that Dougie didn't drift off into some recess of his secretive mind. For that was something Lottie noticed right off: Douglas kept everything to himself. He would probably walk around with a box over his head if he could help it, if only to prevent others from seeing the expression on his face.

This darker side was the one who had yelled at her the other night. But she forgave him for it. Lottie was a very forgiving person.

And so, because Lottie was Douglas' friend, she waited for him all morning. After the first hour, she fell into a light doze, but even when she woke up early that afternoon, Douglas still hadn't regained consciousness. Ashwinder bites were nasty, possibly fatal things, and Lottie knew it would take time for Douglas to recover.

Only one other person she knew had suffered from an Ashwinder bite, and that was the same stoker who had etched the words, "ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO WORK HERE," on the disposal chute. He had been a pretty dismal mate in the first place, and working with all the fire and smoke must have gotten him down even further. After he was bitten, though, the stoker had cheered up immensely. He didn't slouch but walked with a happy little bounce in his step. He smiled and whistled and tipped his hat whenever Loretta walked by. That stoker transformed into the most cheerful, most contented man she had ever seen. Then, one fine morning, he threw himself in front of a freight train.

Poor fellow, she could never figure out why. His death had occurred within her first year at the Ministry, so she hadn't got a chance to be too chummy with him. What has his name been again? Dante?

She shrugged to herself and removed the tin wrapper from her stick of bubble gum. To pass the time, Loretta counted how many sticks she could cram into her mouth and still be able to chew. At the moment, her number was thirty-seven. She folded the thirty-eighth piece in her hand and was about to break a personal record when Douglas began to stir.

Loretta jumped and grinned. "Hallo Dougie!" she greeted.

He flinched on the bed - not in response to the sound of her voice, but as if prodded to move.

The thought dawned on her that she couldn't speak very well with thirty-seven pieces of gum in her mouth and instead of "Hallo Dougie," she had mumbled something more along the lines of, "Aaoo Uggy."

Douglas opened his eyes and stared, wide-eyed, up at the ceiling.

With much difficulty, Loretta spat out her gum into his bedpan and said cheerfully, "Rise an´ shine, Sleepin´ Beauty. How are ye keepin´?"

He made no attempt to answer. Lottie was used to that and so went on. "We were a bit worried aboot ye, Dougie," she said. " Tis nut ev´ry day tha´ one gets bitten by an Ashwinder an´ lives tae teel aboot it. Why the onlie other man I knew-" She begun to talk about that strange fellow Dante when Douglas rolled his head towards her.

His appearance made the words die in her mouth.

The dead eyes were still there: those vacant orbs of a corpse that never blinked and never moved. Lottie felt the creepers run through her; she felt as if Douglas had never come back to this world, that the Big Anes just dumped the cold body into a hospital cot. And those eyes, those dreadful eyes that revealed nothing-

Thoughts of the undead came back to her - childhood tales of possessed bodies and devil´s minions.

"Douglas?" she ventured humbly.

"Hello, Lottie."

She imagined that the lips never moved when he said that, but they did, making a darkened slit in his face.

She tossed her mouse-brown head in denial. Hogswash and rubbish! she rebuked herself. Tis nuthin´, nuthin´ a-tall...

Lottie put a hand over her heart. "Blessed be, Dougie!" she exclaimed. "Ye leuk half-dead!"

"Please take into account that I was..." said his voice in eerie gentleness. "Or perhaps more than that..."

Lottie tittered nervously, thinking he was making a joke. It sure sounded like one...

She chirped, "Still keepin´ tha´ sense oo humour!"

Silence. She thought he hadn´t heard her, but then he replied, "It´s not exactly easy, but I try..." He gave her a small smile. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"Weel," she began, feeling much relieved, "Mo was goin´ doun after his midnight tea an´ he spotted sumthin´ by the stairs. Sumtimes, it´s so dark doun there, an´ he´s nut the ane tae believe in daemons, bu´ when he caught a glimpse oo ye, weel, he jus´-"

Douglas twitched and put a hand to his temple.

"Dougie?" Lottie said, worried. "Are ye alright?"

"Yes, yes..." Yet at those words, he clenched his eyes shut. His head hit against the pillow. A small sound came from his lips.

Lottie moved on in a livelier voice that betrayed her feelings. "So he saw this big thing at the foot oo the stairs an´ pointed his licht at it an´ saw t´was ye. An´ I was wunderin´ upstairs where ye been when he came bac oop carryin´ yu lak a bairn an´ told me-"

Douglas´s body stiffened up again. He rubbed at his temple intensely as he bent over. Another small noise.

"Is it the bite?" she asked tensely.

"No... no..." That wasn't a reply. He put his other hand to his head, as if blocking out voices. "No..." he said under his breath. "Let me be..."

"Dougie..." Lottie reached out to grasp his shoulder but drew back. She didn't want to touch him. All this talk was slowly terrifying her.

Suddenly, his eyes burst open like those of a frightened animal. He grabbed at the mattress either side of him and jerked up, as if an invisible hand had whipped his shoulder blades. Douglas' mouth opened, slack, but not a sound escaped.

The Squib janitor jumped from her seat. "Nurse!" she exclaimed. "Nurse!"

"Don't!" The word tore out his throat. Then, quieter, he said, "Don't... Loretta... please..."

Lottie, uncomfortable enough that Douglas addressed her by her given name, could only watch, half-shocked, as the man restrained his actions. Douglas' head shook once, twice. Then, with great effort, he forced himself to lie back down. Slowly, his hands loosened from the sides of the bed. He stared up at the ceiling, wetting his lips as ragged breaths made his chest rise and fall.

_The Ashwinder bite´s boilin´ his blood_, she thought_. His body´s been burnt frum the inside-oot!_

"Sleep, Dougie," she said, trying to be stern. In a gesture of maternal instinct, Lottie pulled up the sheets around his still form. "Sleep nou. I´ll be bac."

"Don't leave me." Lightening-quick, he gripped her hand. Those eyes awoke with a primal fear, flickering like flame. "Please, Loretta..."

"I'll onlie be awhile," she said, discreetly trying to worm away. But her hand was caught as if in a vice.

"I can't be alone." His voice was firm, almost demanding, but his hands betrayed him. Even with this iron grip, he trembled. Hidden dread strengthened him. He pulled her closer.

"I'll caul a nurse," said Lottie quickly. Immediately, it came to her why he sounded so strange. This wasn't Douglas who was talking; it was someone else! This man's voice was sadder and darker and gentler. And it wasn't laced even with a hint of the Scottish brogue. The old folk tales returned at full force, about demons that would inhabit a person's dead body and tricked others to deal with the devil...

"Who are ye?" she gasped, breaking away.

The man whom she thought was Douglas Ridley looked at her with open hopelessness. "If I am left alone..." he began. He moved forward; she recoiled toward the door.

"Wha' am I sayin´?" Lottie put her hands on her stout hips and ordered, "Douglas Ridley, dunnae be scarin´ me no more wi tha´ sickness oo yers! Nou I´ll be camin´ back tomorrow, an´ ye bitter get aa yer bearin´s oop by then or I´m... I´m..." she fumbled for the words, "I´m afraid tha´ ye can´t be goin´ tae wurk agin!" With that, she bolted from the room.

His voice wailed out behind her. "If I am left alone-!"

"Dunnae be a fool!" she shouted over her shoulder. But it was Lottie who made the Sign of the Cross to herself while departing, and didn't stop until she was safe in the street.

Only moments later, an uncontrollable howl of pain broke the stillness of his room.

A nurse rushed in to see Mr. Ridley huddling upright in the centre of his hospital bed, hugging the sheets tightly around his shoulders.

"Sir?"

No answer.

"Sir?"

His shoulders slumped. "Did I... cause a disruption?" came his voice, weary and sore.

"Are you-?"

"Give... my apologies to the staff," he replied, forcing the words out like regurgitation. "I shall be fine..."

The nurse made to speak again, but he cut her off.

"No harm can befall me now. At least, not yet."

The nurse stood there awkwardly, arms ready to do something her mind wasn't sure about. But she gave in with a somewhat casual nod and turned to leave.

"Wait."

"Yes?"

His head moved, but the rest of his body didn't. Mr. Ridley looked her squarely in the eye. The nurse fidgeted uncomfortably. No man could stare like that and still be breathing. Those eyes were just-

"Do you know a man named Kevin Grisham?"

"No sir..."

"Oh, foolish me, of course you wouldn't..." Mr. Ridley nodded slowly, turning back towards the wall.

He stayed in that position all afternoon.

End of Part 5.


	6. Body vs Soul

**Summary:** Sequel to _Sin of Lycaos_. Lupin seeks to fulfill a sacred promise, but how far will he go? Werewolves wave the red flag while he fights to get himself heard in the legal circus known as the wizard justice system. New and old characters emerge as a struggle in friendship, a question of loyalty, and a search for love unfolds, leading to one of the most controversial cases in magical history: the trial of Remus Lupin.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Also, Chapter 23 features lyrics from "The Likes of You Again" by the band Flogging Molly.  
**Author notes:** Interested in receiving the latest chapters of Wolf by Ears before they're posted anywhere else? Then join the Edge of Eternity Mailing List: http/groups. May 2005

WOLF BY EARS

Part Six: Body vs. Soul

By D.M.P.

Soul, wilt thou toss again?

By just such a hazard

Hundreds have lost, indeed,

But tens have won all.

Angels' breathless ballot

Lingers to record thee;

Imps in eager caucus

Raffle for my soul.

-Emily Dickinson

Chapter 20

He could feel them.

...slithering...

...slithering...

_...his throat filled with bitter chalky ash that clung to his throat and his mouth filled with tar and the hissing thundering through his brain made his eardrums vibrate and ache as they licked their little tongues over him as slimy as dead worms..._

"Hello Mr. Ridley. And how are we doing today?"

_...they were wrapped around his neck oh please Lord don't let them tear out his vocal cords please like Father with his torn throat and blood dripping into the shallow waters of the swamp..._

"Mr. Ridley?" A hand shook him. "Mr. Ridley?"

Lupin lolled his head over to see a man stand before him, clipboard in hand. The hospital room was still and bright. Someone was at the bed, an expression of inquisitiveness on his face.

Lupin blinked a few times at the bright daylight streaming into the room. A cool breeze came from the window.

"Kevin?" he said, disoriented.

"Dr. Mukherjee," the man corrected. He scratched his temple with the tip of his pen. "Are you all right, Mr. Ridley?"

"I'm not Mr. Ridley," he answered groggily. "I never was..."

Dr. Mukherjee jotted down a few notes.

"Who's Kevin?" the doctor asked politely.

Lupin stared around the room. Four barren walls. A window with diaphanous curtains. Table. Reading lamp. Water pitcher. Empty glass. All here. All here like before...

Doctor. There was always someone else in the room, whether it was the Indian physician or an aide or a nurse. Supposedly, Lupin needed constant monitoring. He saw no reason why; weren't the straps enough? His jerked his wrists to be sure they were still there. They said he suffered from seizures.

_How long?_ he wondered. This was a question he frequently asked himself. _How long this time?_

The doctor tried a new approach. "Do you know where you are, Mr. Ridley?" he asked slowly.

"St. Mungo's." Lupin wanted to scratch his head but couldn't lift his hand high enough to do so. "And don't call me Mr. Ridley."

"Do you know why you're here?"

"Because of an Ashwinder bite."

"Yes..." More notes. The doctor, Lupin noticed, kept his eyes strictly on the parchment. Most people who frequented his room did that, yet he didn't know why. Whenever he tried to speak with someone face-to-face, the other always had his head bowed down to the clipboard in his hands, or eyes wandering about the room as if searching for words, or was stolidly focusing not _upon_ Lupin, but in the proximity _of_ him. It gave Lupin the impression that no one wanted to see him - or that everyone was trying to deceive him.

"I must have been dreaming," he said, for the doctor's sake.

"Must have," Dr. Muhkarjee agreed, "though you appeared quite awake when I first came in."

"How am I doing?" Lupin asked. "Will I be allowed to leave soon?"

"Well... the Ashwinder's still left some traces of poison in the last blood sample we took..." He flipped through his pages on his clipboard. "In addition, I've arranged an appointment for you to see Dr. Hannaford in an hour."

"Another specialist?"

"A psychiatrist, actually."

_The world is too full of specialists,_ Lupin thought. He had been poked and examined and questioned and tested for more than a week. A physician for his physique, a magician for his magic, and now a psychiatrist for his psyche, apparently. And what was wrong with him exactly? Will all of these experts have a conference sometime to sort it out?

"But why?"

"Some of the lasting effects of the Ashwinder bite include delusions, hallucinations..." He gestured with his quill. "That sort of thing."

"You think the bite's caused me to become mentally unstable?"

"I'm not saying that," the doctor said quickly. "A psychiatric evaluation is only standard procedure."

Lupin blinked. He didn't know what to think.

The newest specialist, a balding, chubby bloke with frizzy hair, promptly walked into his room an hour before noon; he didn't even bother to knock on the door. "Hullo there," he said warmly, holding out his hand. "Dr. Hannaford."

Lupin shook it and the psychiatrist pulled up the chair. By now, the nurses had taken off the straps that had bound him; Lupin was grateful for that. He had been escorted to the toilet and in the mirror he caught a scruffy, gaunt man wearing a hospital gown in the reflection. He realised that when tied down, he looked like a full-fledged mental case.

Sitting down with one leg crossed over the other knee, the psychiatrist began in a fruity voice, "So I heard you got bitten by an Ashwinder last week," like it was the gossip of the day.

Lupin suppressed the strong desire to snap back, "Well, golly gee, Dr. Hannaford, I believe I was." In place of that, he said tersely, "Yes, doctor."

He rarely liked to judge by first impressions (having been victim to them many times before), but that instant, he had an uncontrollable dislike toward the man. Some people create personalities that radiate about them like an aura, and the aura this man exuded was that of one who found no profession more satisfying than listening to troubled fools talk for numerous hours as long as it increased his net earnings for the day.

"Would you mind speaking about it?"

Where should he begin? Lupin knew he had no permission whatsoever to go down into the Incinerator, yet not a word of reprimand was issued against him during recovery. Was the Ministry waiting for him to become well before they punish him? Did Moseley decided to give an exception for him, and vouched for permission when questioned? Was his firing entirely up to Lottie alone, since she was his boss? And if so, what did she decide?

"Mr. Ridley-?"

Should he speak the truth? Did he want to? Would the doctor-patient confidence pact be violated if he confessed to breaking Ministry regulations?

"I was looking for Ashwinder eggs," he said guardedly.

The psychiatrist gave Lupin a casual glance.

_...flaming cinder burned on his skin and they were crawling through the ash their eyes aglow and from far away he could hear the screams but he was alone all alone except for them..._

Dr. Hannaford's gaze quickly averted back to his parchment; his quill dug into the paper until it bent. "Excuse me," he said, as he groped for another quill in his robe pocket. "What about this Kevin bloke you keep mentioning?" he hurried on.

"A memory," Lupin said simply. "I knew him once. We didn't talk much, but had a few things in common."

Yes, the poor minister. Whatever happened to him and his wife after Brighton? Lupin wondered that occasionally, and the thought cropped up often now he was in the hospital. Had the Ministry tampered with the Grishams memories permanently? Did they forget that they even had a daughter? Or worse yet, did they suspect a world within a world, and view themselves helpless victims to a secret magical society lurking inside their own?

In his mind, Lupin pretended to have conversations with Mary's father. The setting was the most familiar one Lupin could place them in - sitting on the doorstep in front of his sister's home. He would be in the clothes he was most comfortable with: a set of well-worn robes. The Reverend donned his minister's outfit; strange to consider, since Lupin never seen Kevin dressed as a man of the cloth.

"You took care of her. Now what lies ahead?" he imagined Kevin asking once.

Lupin had replied automatically, "I have to learn how to care for myself again."

"And will you?"

"Yes, Father."

But of course he wasn't crazy. If Lupin truly believed these mental conversations occurred, then he would be crazy. Or maybe only schizophrenic.

"If I were suffering from any hallucinations, what sort of treatment would you propose?" Lupin inquired. "Curiosity's sake of course."

"Well, we would have to move you to the psychiatric ward for observation for a few days. Loretta Gordon, your custodial supervisor, stopped in earlier today to see me."

"She did?"

"She was concerned about your state of mind. And frankly, with what Ms. Gordon told me, it's worth looking into."

Worth looking into? Examine the problem, yes, doctor, but stop staring down at your clipboard!

Very softy, in a flat voice that rippled with restrained emotion, Lupin posed a question. "Do you know what it is like to die?"

"Well -" The psychiatrist made as if to begin a very intellectual lecture on that, if only he could gather enough intellect to do so. "Often, when patients experience traumatic events -"

_Cattails blowing in the wind. Swaying, their pulpy heads nudged against each other while in motion. Rustle of the long grass. And the cold night air with the wind and the cattails stirring with the long grass--_

_...they were in the darkness watching him from the depths of oblivion their eyes large and unblinking..._

_Cattails stirring every so gently, concealing and swaying as how a Gypsy moves her billowy clothing in her seductive dance, covering and uncovering, while through the night and twisting grass he could see something large and black and still, half-in, half-out of the stagnant water--_

_...out of the smoky reaches beyond they came by the masses as if drawn to the kill..._

_He was walking, his knees quickly growing rubbery and limp. The mud sucked at his small boots and clung there as he stepped forward. The only sound was the squishing of the mud and the dark wind blowing­--_

Pain erupted through his skull. Wincing, Lupin crouched down, hand almost, but not quite, touching his temple.

The psychiatrist moved away with a cry of concern.

"Headache," Lupin gasped. His arm moved as if swatting the other man away and he said, "I get headaches. Excuse me."

"Would you like me to come back another time?" Dr. Hannaford offered, sounding more than eager.

"It'll pass. I used to be worse a few days before," he answered through clenched teeth. "The pain coursed through my body so terribly, I practically leapt clean straight off the bed. But that's passed. It's only headaches now." In a few minutes, Lupin straightened himself up and brushed a hand through his hair. "Where were we?"

Uncertain about whether to proceed or not, Dr. Hannaford froze momentarily, like an animal before a predator's eyes, but continued. "I think you were going to tell me something. You asked, 'Do you know what it is like to die?'"

"Never mind that," said Lupin hastily. "The point I was trying to get across was that I felt like I was going to die."

And he had that feeling once before, where the cattails were stirring. That and the vision he saw, beyond that night, beyond death...

If he told it all now, everything, would that be admitting that everything he had seen wasn't real? That it was an illusion? Hard and cold the realisation hit him. Lupin did not want to deny the truth. And what he had seen was_ the truth_. And this truth - this revelation - was something this skeptic psychiatrist would never understand.

It was his duty to protect this vision. So Lupin kept it close to his heart and silenced it. Drawing out a yarn for Douglas to tell was an easy option, but he wasn't Douglas Ridley then. He didn't want to be. Remus Lupin was himself, and he told the doctor this:

"Often I would dream I was a young boy who lived near the Forbidden Forest. It was nighttime, and my father was preparing to go out. I, being young and foolish, went down to the living room to watch him get ready. He had a quiver of silver arrows, which gleamed in the firelight. An old servant, Murphy, caught me hiding behind the couch and chastised me for being there. Both he and my father wanted me to return to bed. But I had heard enough to want to accompany my father. For you see, he was hunting that night, for a werewolf named Lycaos..."

Dr. Hannaford wrote this all in furious illegible doctor's script, his quill scratching noisily against the dry paper. Lupin went on, in painstaking detail. He saw the psychiatrist's face flush with excitement, writing with the tip of his tongue sticking out of his mouth. At certain moments, he paused to let the man catch up with his notes.

"... and then I would be running," Lupin said, reaching the climax, "faster and faster, but he would be gaining upon me. I had this feeling then, as I ran, of complete futility. I knew no matter how fast I went, I would fall. It was..." his tongue ran over dry lips, "like fate. And then I did fall; there was a rock in my path and I tripped. I scrambled up as quickly as I could... and the next thing I saw was this hideous white form, pouncing upon me. Long teeth dripping with saliva and bloodshot yellow eyes and then - " Lupin cut it short. This was as far as he would go. The doctor only needed to know the trivial prologue to his truth. "The dream ended."

"You awoke?"

"Yes."

"And how did you feel?"

"Frightened out of my wits." He paused. "But that's all."

Dr. Hannaford chewed at the end of his quill, and then gave a heavy sigh as if he had finished a very satisfying meal. "Most dreams... Express the subconscious. I'm sure you heard of that before."

"I might have read it somewhere."

"Well," the psychiatrist burst giving a chuckle. "This one's chock full of it. The Forbidden Forest represents your subconscious, while night is a clear sign that this dream centres around your darkest thoughts beyond your daily comprehension. The father figure, because he dons the silver arrows, portrays both a fear of his authority, and because of his dark clothing, a sense of mystery and isolation..."

Lupin paid no attention to what the psychiatrist ranted about. One may dissect dreams but not memories. He let the psychiatrist talk on and on and nodded once in a while in agreement, but the words were passing waves on a beach.

After an hour ended, he snapped his clipboard shut and tucked the quill in his front pocket. "And the verdict is?" Lupin asked him.

"In my professional opinion, you seem perfectly fine," said the psychiatrist. "The Ashwinder venom didn't seem to damage you other than physically. Other than an acute fear of werewolves," he said with a smile directed to side table. People who visited him tended to smile in the direction of the table, because it was in Lupin's general direction. That side table must be feeling quite flattered from all the attention.

Lupin answered in that same false easy-going voice, "Shouldn't we all be wary of the Big Bad Wolf?"

"With that dream of yours, I'm sleeping with the light on tonight."

_Cattails blowing in the wind. Swaying, their pulpy heads nudged against each other while in motion. Rustle of the long grass. And the cold night air with the wind and the cattails stirring with the long grass..._

Glaring light beat down on him. The night outside his window made their brightness seem abnormal. Mr. Burtman walked into the room. "How are we feeling today?" said he, just like Dr. Muhkarjee had. Except Lupin felt no concern coming from him.

"I'm pulling myself together," replied Lupin, "and please don't call me Mr. Ridley."

"But that is your name, isn't it?" A fiendish glint sparkled in his yellow eye.

"It is whatever you make of it," he answered vaguely.

"Ah..." A cat cornering its helpless prey would not look more satisfied than the Director did. He pulled up a chair over to the bedside and straddled it. "Your descent into the Incinerator was a clear violation of Ministry regulations," he purred. "The consequences of such actions could lead to dismissal."

True, but Lupin did not see that as the reason for the Director's visit. Lupin could have easily gotten a slip via owl. "But Lottie's my supervisor," he argued. "Isn't it her decision whether it was a violation or not?"

"It is clearly stated in your job contract what our rules are. You signed it under the name Douglas Ridley." His tail swished, wrapping casually around a chair leg. Lupin tensed; the wording was not lost to him.

"Your job contract is quite the comprehensive document," the Director explained. "There it specifically states what your custodial duties are. Plus there are moral and ethical obligations that are expected from all employees. Obviously, what you have committed violated all codes of honor in the book."

"Are you firing me?" Lupin asked, cutting through the pretense.

"I could," Mr. Burtman casually answered, "but if an employee commits fraud, more severe measures would have to be taken."

Lupin raised both eyebrows in mild shock, then reached over and sipped from his cup. "Indeed," he said.

If the Director was expecting Lupin to be fazed, he didn't show it. Perhaps he was too involved with his own words to notice. Lupin had a feeling that Mr. Burtman had this whole speech planned out in advance. "Being a man of excellent position, I often stumble upon ... let's say... secrets now and then," Mr. Burtman said. "Little skeletons from others' closets fall into my disposal, usually when I conduct background research." Lupin knew exactly how he went about with that research. Memories of the spirit niffler still chilled him. Chilled him like the horror of the dark, the dark that crept along the back of his mind--

_...the sick cretin the living chains that writhed and bit..._

Lupin focused on the ceiling panels above his head. He stared at the hospital lights until his retinas burned, and then shut his eyes. Little red circles, like burning halos, danced under his eyelids.

Mr. Burtman offered with a generous tone, "But I'm willing to keep the closet doors locked; I don't like ruining people's lives; it's too messy and time-consuming to hire out new employees. Instead, I like to... gain favors." He rolled the words out luxuriously, his voice dripping with pleasure. Lupin, blinking rapidly, sat in a daze. He wondered what kind of favors he had taken from other employees at the Ministry and what kind of favors Mr. Burtman expected from him. Lupin needn't wonder too long.

"Do you now know what I'm talking about?" Mr. Burtman asked with a carefree gesture.

Oh, Lupin perfectly understood what the Director meant. He knew.

"What secret am I hiding?" he asked curiously. No fear about the future hassled him when he asked; he had seen worse in his past.

"As if you wanted me to say it aloud." Mr. Burtman, anticipating some tension from Lupin, folded his hands in his lap.

His hands disgusted Lupin; they were too weighty and undesirable, like the layer of fat on cuts of meat. Before, Mr. Burtman seemed unimpeachably streamlined, urbane and even otherworldly. Yet now outside his Ministry element, Mr. Burtman appeared mundane despite his strange afflictions. He was, after all, so very... _mortal_.

"Oh, let me guess." Lupin leaned forward and said in a conspirator's whisper, "You think I am an English werewolf pretending to be a Scottish Squib in order to steal Ashwinder eggs and sell them to the black market. You want the eggs I've taken in exchange for your silence," he finished lightly. "Am I right?"

"Your intelligence isn't underestimated," Mr. Burtman replied.

"Is that how you do it, sir? Grab one's hidden truths during the job interview and hire them on the spot, so you can dupe them later?"

Yes, the Director was a mortal man who did immoral things. The spirit niffler? A child's plaything! Mr. Burtman was a con man who loved taking advantage of others and had finally found the position and the means to do so. How else did he escape of the insanity of Azkaban to this secure little job in Edinburgh? Why by blackmailing the right people of course! With his little ghost by his side, Mr. Burtman could have the world on a platter!

Lupin found Mr. Burtman's cleverness and deceit - and his greed - rather entertaining.

The Director flicked his tail in surprise. "Mr. Ridley, I see nothing funny going on."

_Control, Remus!_ Lupin cleared his throat. "Pardon my rudeness." He hoped he didn't embarrass the poor fellow.

"You don't resemble him at all by the way," he added.

"Excuse me?" Mr. Burtman blinked, not knowing what to expect.

"You're a caricature," explained Lupin rationally. "And a poorly done one at that."

"You do realise my intent, Mr. Ridley?"

"I grasp it completely: petty blackmail," he answered with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Some free merchandise for _you_ to sell off for a profit. Anything else I choose not to speculate upon. 'Gaining favors' indeed. What a way to get your jollies." Lupin shook his head, shoulders shaking.

Obviously, the Director of Being Resources didn't suspect Lupin so willing to be exploited. "I...I never knew you'd act this cooperative..." He got up from his seat, but Lupin motioned for Mr. Burtman to sit down again.

"Oh, we're not being watched!" he said. "In fact, go ahead and get them, if you can! There are three. I'm sure they're still hidden in my uniform, which is probably being kept by the hospital. Take it. Tell the staff I gave you permission." By now, Lupin stopped bothering to use the weak Scottish accent he had been used to.

"Keep them?" The Director was beside himself in amazement.

"Unless you want to hand them over to the Zookeepers for lunch money, then yes." Lupin shook his head. The corners of his lips seemed locked in place, curling around his wan cheeks. "Save it up for a yacht," he suggested cheerfully. "You look like you have a good pair of sea legs."

Mr. Burtman opened his mouth to comment, but Lupin interceded.

"It's all right." Lupin reached over and patted Mr. Burtman on the arm. "You're only human, just like the rest of us."

The man drew back from his touch, confusion diffusing in his eyes - which seemed quite normal-looking now, in Lupin's perspective.

Lupin laughed at that. The world had become a farce, one insane jumble of little dependencies and manipulations that amounted to a whole lot of nothing. People crawling along the surface of the earth, trying to feel important, trying to get money and fame and power. Yet, both the king and the pawn go back into the box at the end of the game. And after the ending! Lupin found that thought amusing, and amusement turned to hilarity. The poor tragic world! Look at everyone scamper about like insects! But even the insects are equal to people, as they are both bound on this planet for such a brief period of time. For some reason, this thought entertained him too, as did many others after it. These thoughts ran through his mind over and over again. He was thoroughly enjoying himself and before Lupin knew it, Mr. Burtman was gone and he was alone again.

And when he finally caught his breath and the room settled into a comfortable silence, Lupin wondered what had driven the pitiful Director of Being Resources away.

A polite knocking greeted his door later on. The action was only customary in nature, since his door was already open. Lupin propped himself up on the bed and pushed his meal tray away. That night's menu wasn't too appealing: overcooked spaghetti in watery marinara sauce. Even the look of it made him want to retch.

_...their slimy tongues flickering in and out in and out as they stared with bloody eyes..._

"Hullo Lottie," Lupin said. "How are you keepin'?"

Hesitantly, the custodian stepped inside the room. A small package was held with both hands. Lottie reminded him of a chipmunk more than ever with the way she scurried in, carrying the package like a prized nut.

"Doin' weel enuff." She peered around as if expecting monsters under the bed to pop out at any moment. "An' ye?"

_...dark so dark and alone so dark and alone except for them they never went away..._

Lupin took a sip of his water, pressing his lips against the plastic cup. He let the liquid sit in his mouth before swallowing. "Quite better."

Lottie made a face.

"You don't believe me?"

"Oh, s'not tha'," she replied. "Ye jus' seemed real bad last time, tha's aa." Her dark eyes quickly assessed his thin frame, the scraggily beginnings of a beard of his face, the tired, haggard face. The only part she didn't encounter were his eyes, jumping over them before falling lower to a safer area, the worn hospital sheets.

"Ye leuk lac a ghoul," she said. "Have the Big Anes been feedin' ye richt?"

"Well, 'tis not fine dining. Feel free to sample St. Mungo's cuisine." Making a feint, he picked up the fork and made as if to toss the utensil over. Lottie jumped like he was going to spear her.

A sputtering giggle escaped. "None today," she quickly replied, too nervously for him to believe she took it as a lighthearted joke.

An awkward moment passed. "Please, make yourself comfortable," Lupin offered, referring to the chair.

She wouldn't sit down. "Phineas's bac," said Lottie, groping about for conversation. "He's sorry tae hear wha' happened. Here." She handed the package to him.

Lupin removed the brown paper wrapping to reveal a slim light blue flask. "What's this?"

"A speshul concocshun. My mither's recipe for aa tha' ails ye."

Taking a sip, Lupin tasted a bitter, tangy substance. He swallowed quickly and grabbed his water cup again to wash away the strong flavour.

"Tha' should keep ye nice an' cool," she informed him. "So yer blood dunnae boil."

"Thankee," replied Lupin graciously, putting the flask next to his plate.

Again, they lacked enough words to split between them. Lottie lapsed back into an unusual silence, and this worried Lupin. However, he too couldn't contribute to the waning conversation. The quiet lengthened into a prime example of social deficiency. Lupin sensed that Lottie was holding back from him; like the others, she refused to even given him a simple glance.

Yet despite this discomfort, Lupin was touched that she chanced a second visit after seeing him suffer another attack. He wondered why. Genuine compassion, perhaps?

The Squib shuffled her feet as if wracked with indecision. Lupin offered her the chair once more, but she immediately refused.

"Wunnae be here long; have tae get tae wurk," she said. "But I got a question for ye..." She stuffed her hands in her pockets and pressed her lips together, as if worried or scared.

Lupin waited.

"Wha' happened doun thaur?" she finally whispered.

"What are you talkin' about?" he said.

"Doun thaur... in the Incinerator..." Her eyes darted again. "Wha' was it lac?"

"What was it like?"

"Doun thaur."

Lupin met her stare and she shrank back. The way she asked that question was almost like she _knew... _Lupin analyzed her as if memorizing the flow of sand. Lottie literally became smaller and more timid, arms half-raised in a restrained defensive gesture. "Yu dunnae have tae say aneething, Dougie," she rushed. "It isn't my business tae ask aneehow an'... an'..."

_...they writhed over him and he couldn't breathe please he couldn't see oh dear Lord don't let them take his vocals cords they're at his throat they're at his throat please Lord please don't let them don't let them don't..._

He drew back sharply. Lottie scrambled for safety again, her round face trembling. _She didn't know anything,_ he thought, almost remorse. Only he. To keep her dignity, he went through the motions of courtesy. "It was kind of you to ask. But you must be running late..."

Or just running.

He smiled and hoped it didn't look too grim.

Chapter 21

Papers checked. Slap on the back. A friendly, "Take care of yourself, Mr. Ridley," from Dr. Muhkarjee. All in all, it was a pleasant way to end his stay. A slow, painful week had passed, with workers walking on eggshells and murmuring about him as if they were in the presence of someone greatly revered or greatly shunned. But it was over. Everyone, including Lupin, was relieved about his discharge from St. Mungo's.

Lupin took a lively step down the street; the hospital offered to call up the Knight Bus, but he refused. Underneath one arm was his uniform. Mr. Burtman never taken it; even the Ashwinder eggs remained; he could feel their heaviness like lead balls. Lupin wondered why that devil didn't take up his deal.

As he arrived at the nearest bus stop, Lupin took out the small handful of Muggle money from a used envelope - enough to use the bussing system for a ride home and a little extra. Got to hand it to the Ministry for going the extra mile for their employees.

A small, sincere smile crossed his face. Lottie sent the money for him. He could tell, for he recognized her chicken scratch writing on the envelope. She must have wrestled it out of some official's pockets somewhere, if not from her own. What a good lass; she pitied him so, like a person would pity a sick puppy. Or a rabid dog. And maybe, just maybe, she pitied him as much as he did her.

His hand closed upon the coins once more. Never mind that. There were more pressing things at hand. Lupin lifted his head to the sky and saw the pale shadow of a moon in the daytime sky. Once again, the cycle reached its zenith. He would have to be ready for it.

Sirius lowered his head as he slipped down an empty alleyway in Hogsmeade. Sirius wondered where Lupin was at that moment. An adjusted version to the old public service announcement on wizarding television played in his head: _It's a full moon tonight; do you know where your werewolf is?_ If he had the proper physical structure, he would have made a bitter laugh. Instead, he gave a deep-throated sigh and moved on.

The back door of the Three Broomsticks was slightly ajar, propped open with a metal pail. Sirius peeked inside to see the dirty bottom. No scraps today.

No matter, Sirius knew how to get his grub. He pressed his great head against the door and pushed it wider, then squeezed himself through the door. The door slammed behind him, nearly catching on his tail.

Sirius entered the kitchen boldly and looked around. Rosemerta had her backside turned to him, leaning with her elbows on the wooden counter as she chatted with another kitchen worker. Despite the nice view, Sirius turned away and padded along the flagstones to the fireplace where various meats were roasting on self-rotating spits. There, a tubby man in a dirty apron stood basting the side of a large ham. Sirius gave his best doggy grin.

Rosemerta was a woman a man could grow to love fairly quickly. However, Rosemerta's cook, an overweight cigar-smoker with grisly stubble by the name of Oscar, ignited more enthusiasm within Sirius than the hostess herself. The lady was a looker and served decent drinks, but Oscar could roast one fine rotisserie-style chicken within half an hour. Now that marked him a winner in Sirius's book.

"Hey," he grunted. With one hand, he leaned down to scratch the back of Sirius's ear. "Come to have a romp with Zaria again, eh?" He winked and gave a bawdy laugh that made his belly flubber peek out from under his grease-stained undershirt. "Yup, that's what happens with an early spring."

Why everyone seemed to associate him with Zaria, Sirius had not a clue. First Buckbeak, and now the entire staff at the Three Broomsticks. Egads, this was starting to annoy him.

"Snuffles!" Rosemerta called behind him. Sirius, reluctantly, turned around.

"Hi boy." Rosemerta made her way over and gave her own hard scratch which made Sirius wonder why she wanted to break her fingers against his skull so much. "Rooting around for something good to eat?"

"Or someone," Oscar leered.

"Oscar!" The tavern hostess laughed and slapped him on the shoulder with such force he winced. "Give Snuffles a bone to chew."

Sirius had no idea where the nickname sprung up. Once, he was investigating the rubbish cans for papers when Rosemerta caught him. Instead of being angry with him for knocking down several cans and spreading garbage all along the alley, she gave him a noogie and said, "Well, don't you like to snuffle around?" Thus, the name "Snuffles" was born.

Oscar fished around on the cutting table where several naked chickens sat freshly plucked and found a large soup bone. "Take this, Snuff," he said, toughening up the name to Sirius's relief.

Sirius took the offering and trotted out the kitchen door into the tavern. A wave of sound crashed into his ears as the packed room writhed with life. Smells of hot butterbeer and rich savory stews and meats filled the air. Sirius caught snatches of conversation as he muscled his way through a forest of moving legs and feet. Drops of ale splashed on his coat as he passed some slightly tipsy customers; he shook it off in disgust. He did, however, keep an eye on the leftover scraps on people's plates; occasionally, someone was kind enough to put them down on the floor for him to clean up.

The chocolate Labrador which had caught Oscar and Rosemerta's gossip had settled down in her spot by the gigantic fireplace, which glowed an unearthly green hue. Sirius took his snack and plunked down by a table nearby, ducking slightly beneath the drop cloth away from any person's direct sight. Although no one here knew of his real identity except his canine guide, he still didn't like to take chances.

Zaria gave him a slow eye, then turned back to the fireplace. Beside her were several old newspapers. Sirius quickly crawled over, took the closest one and flipped to the second page with his muzzle. A dog reading the newspaper would catch the attention of any passerby, but the tavern commotion was a blanket that kept him safe from any prying eyes. Contented, Sirius backed further behind the tablecloth, took the soup bone in his mouth, and read while he gnawed. Now this was a dog's life.

The hypodermic needle glistened. One lazy drop hung on its tip - Morpheus's brew, the liquor of dreams. If Claire had been the fanciful sort, she would name it thus, and call its administer the Gatekeeper to the Other Realm. But of course, that "Gatekeeper" was her brother and by the spirits she wasn't as romantic as to call him anything but a blundering fool on a good day and worse names on a bad one.

"Almost ready."

Bernard gave an experimental squirt and the droplets sprayed out from the tip. His brow furrowed in concentration as he stared through his glasses. She swallowed hard, almost in anticipation. Doting out the medicines was a job that Bernard placed himself in charge of; if she only knew where he hidden them she would administer her own. It annoyed her that he didn't trust her, and she had no idea why, but over time she dealt with it.

On the bedside, a mug held her other "medicine," the last cold dregs of the Wolfsbane Potion. Only in recent years the Potion was invented, and even then she had used it rarely. Now, every two weeks before the full moon, the French Ministry's own Werewolf Services delivered the potion at their door, enough to take everyday for a week before the transformation. Bernard acted as if it was only one of her treatments for him to mete out, but she knew this potion revolted him more than any of the painkillers she took. He would rather have her wolf doped up than suppressed totally by magic. Oppressing the wolf nature was blasphemous to him; though he never said so, she could tell. The way his lips formed that tight, thin line when he handed it over to her and how he refused to even look at her drinking it. He had never taken the Wolfsbane Potion in his life, having neither the want nor the need.

According to clan belief, the pain experienced during transformation was needed to transcend between the human and the animal realm. Without the pain, the crossing was sacrilegious and undeserved; one had to prove oneself by facing the agony of transformation. They called it _la_ _douleur de la vie_: the pain of life.

No werewolf in her clan used any drugs or potions to ease the pain or control the aftereffects of the change. Except her.

When she was a pup, her mother always tried to explain why she was excluded. Because she was sick. The spirits wouldn't want her to die because of her wolf's LOCD.

Realistically, it must be their personal judgment, not the whims of the ancestors that allowed this loophole for her. Her father exempted her from this decree, and since he was the clan leader, his word was etched in stone. No one ever complained, but she never forgot the full moons she spent locked up alone. Her illness endangered her very blood kin; they frolicked the mountain forests together while she was trapped in the castle.

Thus, she always knew how much of an outsider she was.

"Put your arm down." Claire rolled up her shirt sleeve and showed the bare underarm. He reached over, feeling for the vein.

Both were dressed in the clothes that Fifi laid out on their beds this morning, ready for them to change into: unbleached linen slacks and loose, square-cut shirts. When Claire was a pup, there was a flowing gown for her to change into. Now she refused to wear a dress of any type, not even the robes she used to tramp around the Safehouse day in and day out. She felt exposed if she wore them; revealing herself like that was an invitation for cruelty; anyone could touch her, anyone could hurt her. Claire had thrown out all of her robes and dresses when she came to live with her brother. Now she always wore trousers, like a man. She would never leave herself vulnerable again.

Preparation for the full moon was an extensive process. The town house was straightened out thoroughly the day before the full moon. Fifi cleared all fragile busts, statues and vases, which usually dotted the place like museum exhibits, and placed them all in a locked storage closet in the basement. Bernard's study was chained up as well, and all the windows were locked with a double bar crossbeam that hooked across the frame.

The housekeeper performed this ritual every month, yet never fully grasped why. Bernard had explained to her long ago that it was special work he had to do and must never be disturbed. At the end of the day, he escorted Fifi Dubois out of the house down to her own home three streets away.

"Come now, Fifi," he would say, and she would take her hat off the coat rack, hook her arm in his and walk leisurely down the drive, past the gates, and onto the street. What a quaint pair they made: the small woman taking tiny steps with tiny feet and the bear-like figure plodding alongside her, with one stride making up for three of hers, chatting sociably about the weather.

For twenty years they did this, and Fifi Dubois never suspected a thing. Bernard sent an elaborate gift of flowers and chocolate to her family every Christmas, and they thought he was the kindest employer Fifi could have.

"Everyone has a place in life," Bernard told Claire once, "including the idiots."

At the Castle Bisclavret, half the servants had an IQ that hovered about 80. The other half was paid enough to keep quiet; there had to be some competence in the serving staff, or else everyone would be driven insane. If they weren't senile enough already.

"Only a pinch now," her brother muttered. The minor pain made her flinch, and she watched hypnotised with fascination as he injected the small bit of clear fluid into her arm. His eyes were hard and focused, and always a blood-worn red. He strongly resembled their father that moment; he did often during moments of intense concentration.

Claire could feel the drug course through her veins like tingling ice. Momentarily, she stiffened, then the effects slammed into her like a padded fist.

Vision swam. Sounds echoed. Touch evaporated. Life dulled and melted away into nothingness. Maybe this was what death was like. Nothingness. Her eyes weighed down, gazed over and settled, closing like lead slabs falling on asphalt. The very air she breathed seemed thick and heavy and could only be inhaled in shallow amounts. She saw him back away, as if fearful of the violation he committed against his sister, then he went to the bathroom to dispose of the needle and lock up the rest of the morphine.

But she was happy for him; his horror was her joy. She relaxed, becoming limp. Everything wavered and spun in front of her like a drunkard's vision. Euphoria, like a million massaging fingertips over her body, claimed her as its own.

She loved the effect. She loved morphine. Her new goal in life was to love morphine so much she would become an addict. How pleasant.

That was the drug talking.

Faintly, she heard her brother escaping downstairs, away from the drugged monstrosity he fostered, muttering some sort of traditional prayer or saying or whatever.

And there she was, lying on the bed with nothing but a few pillows and a blanket to comfort her and the curtains pulled back on all the windows, letting the streetlight pour in. It would seem very lonely, if she saw herself then.

But she didn't. Instead, she was sitting at a sidewalk café and the saxophone was calling to her. A little golden-haired child giggled to herself as a man, with a solemn face but a twinkling eye, presented himself to her. Would she care to dance? Of course she would; she had been waiting so long for this moment.

The moon would rise later but she would not feel the effects of transformation then. She would be waltzing through the air now, lost in a dream of the man who brought her such pain and endearment. Sleep, being the balm of all wounds, was the final medicine she took. Claire indulged in it, heavily.

Across the ocean and another world away, the light in Remus Lupin's tenement glowed. The place tenement stank. The smell of mould, dust, and old plaster filled the air, but tonight, the odor of alcohol reigned as well.

Lupin sat on his creaking cot with a small shot glass in his hand and a bottle in the other. Hand still in control, he poured to the brim. Then, with a sudden movement, he swung his arm back and tipped the contents of the glass into his mouth. The raw alcohol scorched his throat on the way down. Pulling a face at the mirror in reaction to the intense liquor, he dropped the glass on the bed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Reaching into his briefcase, Lupin took out a small tin fill of pills.

The urge to drink hadn't driven him to this; it was practicality. He had done this for years every full moon; unconsciously, that could be why he had no trouble coming to a bar that October in Havenshire. Alcohol was a depressant; it dulled everything and made the transformation so much easier. Perhaps, subconsciously, he was thinking that when he got drunk on absinthe that full moon. Now, he sat in his tenement, kicking back whisky with complete calmness.

He held up a pair of the pills. His vision wavered; they seemed like fuzzy dots between the tips of his fingers. Phenobarbital.

A drug used to calm the nerves. Taken with alcohol, it can knock a person out for a day. Or a werewolf for a night.

Over the years before the Wolfsbane Potion was invented, this was what prevented Lupin from reeking havoc when living near other people.

Phenobarbital - the miracle drug.

Placing the capsules of his tongue, Lupin poured himself another glass. His hand shook a bit, and he slipped some of the liquor on the scuffed wooden floor. Lupin threw his head back again and tossed both the cup and the bottle in his briefcase. Then, he spread out of the thin cot. It creaked beneath him. With a free leg, he kicked the case shut and pushed it off the bed. The briefcase clattered to the floor.

Now came the worst part - the wait.

He had to remember that he already took the pills. Far too many times, he let the circular reasoning take over. He would think that he took too many, or hadn't taken enough and then it would all...

Hold on a moment. How many? That last pair he took, now why did he do that...? The last hour, he already had... he already had... no, he didn't take some the last hour, but did he... so how many did he... how many...

He held tight to the iron railings at the head off the cot. He wasn't drunk - not exactly - he liked to think of it as a soothing buzz. Still, he felt the need to keep his balance while lying down. Minutes passed and his felt his limbs deaden and float away from him. Something tugged within his mind; he could hear the growling within, beating inside his skull.

He did take the pills already, right?

Flakes of rust came off on his hands as he let go. Lupin felt himself tumble and hit the floor; but he felt no pain. He was being dragged into the floor, it was sagging; he was falling--

But the wolf was seething. Itching burst through his body as thick hairs spread across his skin like a rash. He couldn't scratch; he was crawling toward the window; he had to get to moonlight-

His spine cracked and rippled; his ears stretched and moved toward the top of his head; he could feel the cheekbones hollow and the bones elongate--

And it was all a dream; all this pain and transformation, all encased in a drug-filled haze as something began to part in his mind; frightened more now than ever before, the human in Lupin scrambled for an anchor. Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, the man within began to speak.

_Our Father, who art in heaven, _

_Hallowed be thy Name._

He got to the window. Lupin collapsed on arms and legs that weren't arms or legs, but grotesque shifting pieces of flesh - like chunks of primordial clay -

_Thy kingdom come. _

_Thy will be done, _

_On earth as it is in heaven._

And the harsh mechanical streetlights pierced through and mingled with the artificial glow was the true light--

_Give us this day our daily bread._

His vertebrae cracked and the tail shot out as his body gave a sickening lurch; organs were moving in his body and changing; the wolf wanted to howl but he could only make a twisted nasal sound from his mouth and nose, as if hacking up phlegm -

_And forgive us our trespasses, _

_As we forgive those who trespass against us._

His whole form was convulsing. Lupin was aware of that. _Thump! Thump! Thump!_ on the unforgiving floor like a fish out of water. But he could feel nothing, nothing, as if he were dreaming or as if he were dead--

_And lead us not into temptation..._

He couldn't tell which, though he had experienced both before.

_...but deliver us from evil._

"Rowwll!"

Shavings of wood were peeled off by gigantic claws--

_For thine is the kingdom--_

_--_as the wolf raised his groggy head to greet a newborn night. Conscience faded... disappearing... dissolving into...

_For thine is..._

Echoes. Incomprehensible echoes vibrated around in the animal skull.

_For thine..._

His paws trembled beneath him.

_For thine..._

_Thud!_

The wolf did not rise again.

The dream ended. The sounds of music drifted away. She was lying down. Furniture squatted about her like great black hunks of stone. The cool streetlamps' glow, barred through the windows of her balcony doors. Little honks and sounds of passing traffic filled the void of space. The city coming to life as the moon moved along its path in the sky.

Hazily, as her world came back to her, Claire discovered that she wasn't herself anymore. For a moment of pure shock, she froze, thinking, _Something is not right. _She stared down at her black paws, each stretching nearly the size of a small dinner plate. Her nose - how large it seemed, and wet - brushed against them. Then, the moment passed. She was a wolf. Relief settled down within her that she survived the transformation once more.

Claire couldn't move necessarily, because she was without her brace; the best she could do was lie down on the blankets. Only her front was mobile; anything from her hind legs to her tail became nothing. Attempting to move endangered her injured body. And so she lay there, waiting for the night to pass.

During this time she couldn't help but marvel at her condition: a wolf with a human mind. She had no urge to hunt, to fight, to attack any living being on sight. No desperate need to hit the walls or bark like a rabid animal. She was finally in control and liked it very much. A magical miracle induced by the Wolfsbane Potion.

Downstairs, she heard the door creak. Bernard's wolf had come out of the living room. Born nearly blind, he had experience with wandering in his dark world, guided by his remaining senses. At the moment, Claire could detect the strong smell of their human selves and Fifi Dubois permeating the rooms. Yet Bernard's wolf was used to these scents and knew that the physical human presence wasn't there. Years of experience taught him this.

Clan teachings said the animal and the man existed in the same being. In this cooperation, the man and the wolf must share the body, mind, and spirit - that was why werewolves transform. Thus, along with this belief, came the tradition of each werewolf having two names: a human one and a wolf one. Although the human name was known, the name of one's wolf was sacred. Not even parents knew the name of their pup's wolf. It was unspoken, but felt. To tell one's name to another was to give away one's most secret soul.

All of this was ritual and family religion, which she didn't observe anymore. Claire had fallen long ago; she saw no place for her. For if it was true, then where did she fit in with her demented wolf? If her wolf reflected her soul, then was she twisted and deranged inside? Certainly not! Merely the thought terrified her.

Claire heard Bernard's wolf pad up the steps to the second floor; his claws went _tap-tap-tap_ on the wood. Within a few minutes, he was exploring the second floor, restless. She sensed him halting at her own bedroom door and nudging it open with his muzzle. The door gave a sharp groan and he stepped through.

With her hazy vision, Claire could only make out a large figure standing in the darkened doorway. However, she had seen him many times in detail. Bernard's wolf stood 80 cm at the shoulder and was about 167 cm from head to tail. By European standards that was enormous. His muscle was firm and toned under his fur, which was short like hers, with a heavy scruff around his shoulders. Because of his albinism, he had no coloring; his hairs were pure white at the thickest, and almost translucent in the delicate areas around his eyes and mouth. Fleshy undertones of the skin beneath his fur made the wolf's figure glow, spectre-like, in the near-blackness.

Bernard had a wolf one could take pride in.

Sniffing delicately, Bernard's wolf moved forward, as if tracking a scent. He always kept his head low to the ground in order to feel his way.

Bernard's wolf circled slowly until he came to the bed, and then placed his front paws on it. His weight pulled the mattress down. Growling defensively, Claire scampered along with her front paws to the other side. Still tracking, he stuck his muzzle underneath her right front leg; Claire retracted swiftly. Startled, Bernard's wolf leapt away. He turned his great head in a different direction and got onto the ottoman in front of the bed. Standing on his hind paws, he rested his head on the footboard, immediately in front of Claire's nose.

She sniffed loudly. He tossed his shaggy head back and forth quickly, his nostrils shrinking and dilating, noting the air. Unfocused, his red eyes turned to a spot above Claire's head. His jaws were parted slightly, flashing his pink tongue like a dumb dog.

Claire rested her head on a folded blanket. The small movement caught the other wolf's attention; slowly, he leaned in, sniffing. She remained absolutely still, fearful he might upset her position. Bernard's wolf investigated swiftly, with quick little twitches of his wet nose. Recognition lit his face as he caught her scent.

A delighted sound came from him. The noise sounded old and young, the combination of a grandfather's awed murmur coupled with a toddler's surprised squeal. Bernard's wolf shuffled forward and brushed the side of her head with his muzzle. Some ancient peace shuddered through him. _I know you!_ he seemed to exclaim. _I know you!_ It came out like a sigh.

Overjoyed, Bernard's wolf nuzzled her fur. Claire snapped at him. Amazed at such aggressiveness, he jerked back and tilted his head to the side, puzzled.

What kind of fool is he? Wolves don't blush, but she felt the keen embarrassment like a knife. She was an outcast, so out of place; she looked like a wolf but didn't have the mind. And look at him! He was a wolf, a _true_ wolf, and he... Well, she was embarrassed by Bernard's wolf because he had that mind and no matter how hard she will ever try, she'll never fully understand it. Because she was different, because she was flawed, because she was--

_Leave me!_ She wanted to scream, to howl. _You can never leave me alone!_

Not put off by her aloofness, Bernard's wolf retreated to his spot on the footboard, contented. There was an innocent air about him, but it masked an obscure wisdom that was beyond her understanding. Bernard understood how much wiser his wolf was compared with his human self; so did everyone else in the clan. That was why he remained leader.

Bernard's wolf acknowledged her with a knowing air. He sensed her unhappiness. His throat made an inquisitive curling sound. Claire hid her head again. She wanted solitude, yet hated her loneliness. More so, she hated to admit that she needed company.

The other wolf inched his muzzle forward until the tip of his nose touched, cold and wet. "Arrrl?" he repeated. Then, he licked. For a moment, her breath halted. Claire's muzzle rose again, ready to snap. How dare he-?

She bared her teeth. A low rumbling growl came from her. Some base, human part of her wanted to hurt him for that. But, watching that humble beast filled with quiet self-assurance, her anger waned. Bernard's wolf watched yet not watched, becoming as immobile as a marble statue. His concentration quelled her obstinacy; she backed down, childish shame overcoming her.

"Arrrl?" His eyes were blank, overshooting her head. He licked her again. The touch was warm and ticklish and as comforting as a lullaby. _There, there,_ he said in silent expression. _There, there..._

Tenderly, Bernard's wolf caressed her fur with his tongue. Along her cheek, across one closed eyelid, and then the other. _There, there,_ he said. _There, there..._

A giant mournful weight pushed itself from her chest. Her anger and pride was wiped away in an instant. Unexpectedly, Claire found herself whimpering, softly, ears bent down upon her head. Little whines and squeaks echoed from the hollows of her throat. She couldn't explain what they meant in human words. But she knew what they meant. And so did he.

Many minutes, perhaps hours, passed when all she could feel was her hidden tears and soothing motion of the other wolf consoling her. Bernard's wolf rubbed his cheek against hers and nestled his head in the deeper fur on her neck and shoulders.

_There, there, there, there..._

Finally, she lifted her head as Bernard's wolf stroked the crest of her brow with a final lick. _All will be well,_ his expression said.

He opened his mouth so the tips of his teeth barely showed and cupped her muzzle in his jaws. The mild pressure pressed her skin. _There, there, broken one. All will be well._

Then, he leaned back that magnificent head and howled. The first note trembled in the air like a glistening drop of water, then flew, in an ecstatic flight, up, up, up, to the highest peaks of the world. _Listen, world! _he howled,_ Listen! We are never alone and here we shall always remain! Since the dawn of creation this is the song we have sung and tonight, we sing it again! Listen, world! Listen! We are here and together, and none shall break this bind of the blood. Listen, world, to my cry, to my joy, to the night of the moon and the glory! _

Claire, humbled and bewitched, watched. The peaks climbed and he stopped, abruptly, to take a breath and proclaim the unspoken words, this distilled feeling, once again. But this song was not meant to be a solo.

As he launched into another cry, suddenly, she threw her voice in too. Her howl wasn't half as harmonious or natural as his, because she still had her human mind guiding her. Still, the impact was tremendous and wonderful. Crescendos of sound rocked the room, sending repercussions bounding from all the walls and the ceiling. Yes, a glorious thing it was, the howl of reunited wolves.

The sound echoed in her mind long after it ended; the last thing she remembered was the beautiful, haunting melody beckoning her into the night sky...

_Cattails stirring in the wind. He moved forward, slowly so that the mud sucked greedily at the soles of his feet. Knees wobbled as he pushed forward through the muck. He couldn't do this; this wasn't true; he didn't-- he didn't want to--_

_"Father?" Dry and parched his throat was from the yelling only minutes before; the word came out like a toad's croak._

_Part of him didn't want to know. Part of him wanted to run, run fast, run home and jump into bed and put the covers over his head and fall asleep; yes, asleep, because this was all a dream and when he awoke in the morning Father would be there reading the paper and drinking coffee and asking if he wanted to see the baby unicorn this morning - _

_And he moved forward, and his foot, freed from the mud, brushed up against something very solid and utterly dreadful. _

_The cattails were stirring but the soft rustling became soft rustling no more. _

_It became the hissing of snakes._

"ARRRRRRRRRRGH!"

She didn't know who yelled that - her or her brother. But the screaming rattled her brain, as everything inside of her scrambled and rearranged themselves like puzzle pieces of her body, twisting and moving - and there was something grinding inside her - she could hear it like sandpaper against granite - panic flew up - she wouldn't survive - she was going to be ripped apart from the inside out - she couldn't feel - she couldn't feel - too much, all too much - crushing and rolling and grinding - **PAIN**--

And then it ended.

Staring out at the closed balcony windows, Claire felt gutted and stuffed with shards of glass.

_La douleur de la vie._ More like _le peine du mort_.

A voice snapped, "Wake up."

His trembling, pale hand reached out from the floor.

"Wake up now. Get your brace on. Hurry," Bernard muttered, still aching from his transformation. He reached up and gripped the side of the bed frame with his other hand, pulling himself off the rug. While even in good health he looked sick; in this state he was undead. The tired, toneless skin, the eyes raw, the colourless hair shaggy and unkempt - he was a vampire risen from the grave. Behind the veil of pain, the cynical part of Claire's brain laughed. The vampire Bernard. What a riot.

Straightening out his loose clothing by touch, he then scratched his head and stretched his limbs. He arched his back and several snaps were heard. Bernard grumbled to himself, half-appeasing, half-cursing, then said aloud, "Which side of the bed, Claire?"

"Left," she spat into her blanket.

Her brother froze and raised an arm out in front of him. Like how a needle moved about a compass, Bernard turned about the room, pointing. "Bed," he noted. "Ottoman. Balcony doors. Window. Desk. Bureau. Shelf - one, two, three. Wardrobe. Small table. Door."

With each word, his finger landed on the object named in perfect coordination. He knew the whole floor plan of his townhouse by heart, down to the last stick of furniture. Thus, he could walk through his home in pure confidence, even if he couldn't see. They had made a game of it at the castle when they were younger; Claire would cheat by moving chairs or even swapping cushions last minute, but Bernard always knew when she did so. He would hear her, no matter how quietly she moved.

Bernard kneeled down by the bed and stuck his hands underneath, groping for Claire's braces. His palms made loud, slapping noises against the floor.

Claire groaned; a throbbing migraine was being born between her eyes. The commotion her brother made became thunderclaps within her ears. She tried mumbling an insult in reply but failed. Her arms were limp and heavy - exhaustion deadened them. Her hips felt disjointed and immobile. She could feel the hideous, man-made plastic and metal stuck inside her, scraping against what was real.

She tried to speak but could not. The morphine had long since worn off. Claire could not focus enough to speak; only the pain lived in her mind.

He brought them out: more piles of hideous metal to encase her body. "Get over here. Put them on. Then, I'll get your medicine." He pushed them forward and she took hold of one. Bernard kept his hand on it; she guided him to her body.

Fumbling hands fastened her brace in place. They grasped the claps and hooks together with searching fingers, moving meticulously without falter. The touch of a blind man: thorough and observant.

By that time, Claire was thoroughly awake. No! Flicking off his unwanted help, she did the last buckles around her waist lying down then sat up, stiffly. She wanted painkillers or breakfast - either one suited her fine.

Bernard got up from his kneeling position on the floor, arms out and slightly bent. He held onto the foot of the bed, then the ottoman, then took two steps toward the balcony doors. Despite the chill weather, he threw them open and cautiously stood on the landing. The dawn light streamed past him like the luminescence of a god. Wind blew, billowing curtains and sheets. The pain resided a bit as she stared, wondering if he remembered.

He turned to her with his sightless eyes squeezed shut against the brightness. "This is beautiful, isn't it?" he whispered. "The sun upon the skin."

It was.

Chapter 22

The conversation played out like a familiar record. A soft breeze caressed the back of his neck. The sky - a distant blue-grey shade - complimented the winter air, but bore a hint of future warmth.

Kevin held the porcelain doll in his hands. Lupin tried to imagine his expression as benevolent - he had always been benevolent to him - but all he could see was heaviness in those blue eyes. A cloud of sadness had draped themselves upon them. Not matter how hard Lupin tried, Kevin always appeared quite somber, but in a fathomless, aesthetic sort of way. Like those statues that cried in the presence of saints.

A thin finger played with a lock of hair. "How long would it take?" he asked, very softly.

"I don't know..." Lupin's eyes trailed down the street. It was quiet and empty. But by the look of the houses, it was a nice neighborhood. One could raise a family here. "I need to tie up loose ends first. I can't have any one else involved with this."

"So your friends at the Ministry wouldn't know?"

Lupin thought to say, "They aren't my friends," but retracted that statement. "It's better if they didn't."

"What about the others?"

"I can only hope they would understand. And that they try not to do anything rash." He turned to face him squarely. "If you were truly here, I'd have to admit that you were right with what you told me."

"And what did I say?"

Lupin thought for a moment. Here was the place Kevin, the real Kevin, told him this. He had to close his eyes for this, even in the realm of his own mind. " 'I know that you might think the world is your enemy,' " he quoted slowly. " 'But that can't be necessarily true all the time. People will be on your side in places where you least expect them. When you realise that, you'll know that sometimes, when you give in, it's for your benefit, not theirs.' In other words," he abridged, "sometimes when you lose, you win."

Then, he stopped.

Lupin rubbed his forehead and got up in his room. The doll he held in his hands was tossed back into the briefcase. Sitting up in the cot, he looked in the mirror. Hair stuck out in all directions. He pressed the largest tousled lock upon his head, only to have it stick back up again. A sigh escaped him. After transformation, he was always prone to bed head.

He had spent all day there, musing his last hours away and harnessing back his strength. Lying back down, he tucked his hands behind his head. Letters of resignation would have to be sent out; he'd probably mail it by Owl Post; he couldn't face telling Lottie. It would be better for the both of them if he didn't show up, for whatever easy-going relationship they had before had vanished. She seemed afraid of him like everyone else and it unsettled him.

There was no going back. It was strange, this feeling that was stirring up inside. There were matters to be done, and he had taken them all into account. Life had been the stirring of sand in a glass of water; particles of action and memory and dementia whirled within the mixture, and only now did they begin to settle to the bottom, to be buried and resolved. The weight, the panic, the jealousy and the yearning need that had controlled him had slowly, siphoned from his system; a skeptic would say he was scared straight, but that wouldn't be it. He felt no negative enforcement of his actions; it all seemed to flow naturally, like water, from one movement to another, one deed done then on to the next. One might call this feeling peace. Or enlightenment.

But neither word could quite describe this state he was in. An epiphany was a better term. He was wretched but now pure, he descended but now rose up again, he was blinded but now he saw. Who he was, who he had become, and now, who he is and what he must do.

_Knock, knock, knock!_

Who could that be? Lupin propped himself up for a second time. He tied up the last of his rent last week; the visitor certainly wasn't the landlord.

A muffled shout came through the door. "Hallo!"

"Finney?" Lupin called back, unsure. He swung his legs off the bed, grabbed his glasses that teetered on the sink's rim, and opened the door a crack. The stoker, still dressed in overalls, waved. From behind him, Lupin spotted Moseley, who tipped his cap to him. "Wha' are you doin' here?" he asked, throwing on the worn accent like an old coat. "Where did you get the address?"

"Lottie fished it oot for us," Finney replied. "I wanted tae check oop on ye."

"She knew I called in sick," Lupin said. He stepped out of his room and stood with them in the door, shutting the door behind him. "You look well," he told Finney.

Indeed that was true. Finney's sanguine face contrasted greatly with the weak and sickened one that Lupin left him with. Seeing him there, fit as a fiddle so to speak, made Lupin ill. The keen stab of shame ran through him, reminding him of the selfish wrong he committed against this innocent.

"Aye." Finney nodded. "Moseley was wonderin' how ye were. Lottie told us same funny stories oo ye at the hospital. Were ye bein' treated richt?"

_As rightfully as I deserved to be treated_, Lupin thought. A kind of gladness overtook him now that he saw Finney was healthy and he didn't do any lasting damage. Lupin felt the need to ask forgiveness, or show some sort of affection towards him, but held his stance. Instead, he grinned.

"As right as I am fit for standin'," answered Lupin. "Where is she? At home, I'd wager?"

"Nut on her nicht off. She's at the Flying Leviathan an' I thought we'd offer a fiddler's biddin' for a tipple an' caw the crack a bit."

"Join you for a drink?" Lupin repeated, partly to get the translation right. His thoughts came back to the letter, which lay waiting to be sent. He had to take them to the nearest Owl Post. Soon. But not now; surely he had a few last hours to spend.

The idea, the more he considered it, wasn't unappealing in the least. The time he spent previously with the Smaa Fowk of the Ministry was self-serving and cheapening. Lupin knew he had used them, and felt some obligation to make up for it, even it was known only to himself. Perhaps, just this once, could he spend sincere time with them before he left?

He hesitated, mentally and literally. "Well, I dunno, I haven't been as strong today and I'd only be a bother-"

"Nah, no ane's a bother when thaur's ale involved. Came on."

Lupin gazed into Finney's friendly face, expecting a quick withdraw of the invitation. His gaze did not invoke fear; instead, Moseley took him by the arm, leading Lupin down the hall at a fast pace. "Yup, Lottie said ye leuked half-dead," Finney confirmed. "Bu' dunnae fret aboot tha'. Mo an' I will git ye bac in shape in no time."

"In no time," Mo reaffirmed.

Did the unusual fear he inspired in others dissipate with the Ashwinder venom? Or did Finney simply choose to ignore it? A hint of relief sparkled within him. Lupin had been hoping this was true. Now the haunting malady was gone... It was a sign. It had to be a sign.

Before Lupin knew what was happening, he was on the pavement and walking down the block. "Tis not far from here," Finney said, hailing down a Muggle bus. Lupin got on and plunked down in the nearest seat, with the two stokers next to him and behind as if they were bodyguards. He stared out the window, trying to pin down his route, but the street names slipped from his mind as quickly as they passed their signs.

Lupin stepped into the Flying Leviathan and was swallowed whole by the immensity and commotion. His eye was draw to the enormous carving mounted on the foremost rafters, the pub's namesake: a giant, serpentine sea monster graced with a pair of feathered wings. Below it, the people throbbed like waves.

This was not like the subdued, tired bar that Lupin entered in Havenshire; instead of old faces worn by rural monotony and routine, these were the flushed and laughing faces of people in various stages of intoxication. Stepping into that pub brought back a twisted crash of twisted memories and misplaced associations. There was the brawny red-haired bartender: _"Anything you need there, hon?"_ No, it was a stiff, toothpick man with a more mustache than mouth, cleaning a mug with a dishrag.

And they didn't serve absinthe here, but Firewater Whiskey, and - priced low for the Smaa Fowk - a pint of Guinness for one's troubles. No, this was nothing like the Havenshire pub where it all began. Lupin shook his head; the last of the lingering headaches collided with his brain.

_...and they were watching always watching as their tails twitched in the darkness and their eyes glowed..._

Lupin hunched down, immediately, putting a hand to his temple. He felt like he was pulled in all different directions yet remained, unyielding, like a stubborn piece of taffy. His vision kicked off to do the backstroke, and he hadn't even touched a glass yet.

Moseley put an arm on his shoulder and Lupin felt the pain ebb away from his mind. Lupin gave a quick glance toward the stoker in surprise. He tottered, and Finney absent-mindedly caught the crook of his arm. "Lottie!" he shouted, waving a hand.

Lupin straightened himself up and looked about once more. The place was crowded with little clusters sharing good cheer among themselves. The only one alone was a large man - Lupin wondered if he was a half-giant - sipping from what looked like a pitcher in a corner of the room.

Loud music blared from somewhere. Chords from a magically-enhanced guitar vibrated the air and drums pounded out with a fire-roaring fiddle as the Irish-intoned lyrics raced through his skull.

_"Wednesday night is mornin' now _

_As I'm walkin' in the rain _

_The birds are screaming in my ear _

_Drivin' me insane..." _

At the bar, Lottie perched on one of the stools. Her size made it seem as if she was a kid sitting at a drugstore counter, not a fully-grown woman waiting to take a beer with her friends. A bottle or two was already stood beside her; it seemed that she wasn't unoccupied before their arrival.

"Hallo ye!" she called out in a rather loud voice. "Ah've been waitin' for ane hour! Wair have ye bin?" Her voice had slipped back into the heavy brogue; Lupin wondered whether it was from the atmosphere or the drink.

Lottie's cheerful smile cracked a bit upon seeing Lupin; she would have been happier in a basilisk's den. Nevertheless, that fearful moment passed and she was all grins once again, clapping Lupin on the shoulder with a kid hand as she jested, "Nou tha' be the last time ye go off askin' for a sick nicht off."

Lupin turned away, masking his unsteadiness with bashfulness. He had requested last night off, accounting it to his recent illness.

"An ill man wunnae go tak a tipple," she concluded.

"Or a real man would, jus' tae git him bac intae good health agin." Finney winked, pulling up a stool next to her. Moseley clambered up onto another seat and waved for the bartender.

Lupin gave the best smile he could give and chipped in, "And what kind of man would miss a good chance for a pint?"

_"Half the clouds are empty _

_So the sun burst through the sky _

_The puddles show reflection _

_Of a face about to die..." _

Various shouts and cheers from a far corner got Lupin's attention. Out of his peripheral vision, now steadying since he sat down, he saw a rowdy crowd of boys in suits. They filled the air with lewd jokes and hollering; their ties hung loosely about their necks like nooses, as they tossed their mugs up in the air with drunken cheer.

"To the fifth time!" one of them shouted, clanking his mug with his companions'.

"The fifth!"

"To becoming one of the sleazy buffoons we always wanted to be!"

"Aww, those bairns," Lottie waved off with a dismissive hand. "They've been at it aa evenin', toastin' this an' tha'. Seem lak one oo them got samthin' tae be celebratin'."

"Aye, to buffoons!"

"And to Mr. Thomson - the bastard - who said I couldn't do it!"

Lupin recognized that voice. A man with a scarecrow frame jumped upon a chair, wielding a frothing mug like a sword.

"To bastards everywhere!" Samuel Harper proclaimed to his buddies.

"Aye!" they chorused.

The mugs fell back into their owners' mouths as their contents were drained.

_"Just around the corner, I was goin' round the bend _

_I ran into a staggerin' fool _

_Who said he knew my name..." _

"An' ye?"

"Wha'?" Lupin faced front again to see the bartender waiting.

"Why are ye askin'?" Lottie barged in. "Cannae ye see the man's starvin' for a good pint?"

Lupin would have said otherwise, but soon enough, a cold Guinness was shoved in his hand. He placed the bottle on the bar top and wiped the condensation off his hand.

_"He poured himself a whiskey _

_And his face began to glow _

_Two men without an answer _

_Like a dog without a bone..."_

While his companions all took a swig, Lupin toyed with the bottle, not taking a drink. At the moment, alcohol repulsed him. He sat, slightly isolated, listening intently to the conversation. Music weaved in and out between their words.

_"Bringin' in the new year _

_As the bells began to ring..." _

"Ye started wi'oot us." Finney said joking, gesturing to Lottie's bottles.

"Maybe eff ye wunnae so late..." Lottie stuck out her tongue at him, before offering it. "Tak a swig."

_"Fats is in the corner, she's just about to sing _

_Time to get another, before the final shout,_

_You should have heard them roarin' _

_When they dragged the bugger out!"_

The brute in the corner yelled with the singer, "_And we'll never see the likes of you again--!_"

The topic shifted. "Have you heard wha' happened wi' Mr. Burtman?" Lottie said. Lupin turned his attention to her, interested.

"None to my ear," he replied.

"Weel, thaur's word goin' aboot tha' he's been actin' all skittish. He might even quit his job. Rather unexpected, ye think?"

_"The colours all seemed bland _

_I've traveled all these years, he said _

_To only get this far, so he crossed the street _

_Found a seat, his home is now a bar..."_

"I see. He visited me in the hospital. Seemed all right." Lupin gave an internal grin at the memory of the Director of Being Resources rushing from the room. Yes, he deserved that.

"Frankly enuff, I'm glad he's thinkin' oo leavin,'" Finny put in. "Did ye hear wha' he did to the secretary over in the Wand Order?"

"Frankly enuff," answered Moseley.

_"And we'll never see the likes of you again--!"_hollered the brute in the corner.

"She was caught snoggin' wi' the maintenance administrator a while bac, and Mr. Burtman caught them in the act--"

_"There must be more to life, than this poxie life _

_All the agro, all the pain _

_So he disappeared into his final beer _

_But the glass was empty, once again, again..."_

_"AGAIN!" _shouted the brute, raising his glass.

"Then," Finney continued, "he threatened tae give them the tell-tale unless the administrator gave his pay."

"An' the secretary?"

"Gave her own type oo payment."

"Really?" Lottie said, shocked.

"Really," Moseley verified.

Another voice, as if someone was trying to make an announcement, cut through the hubbub. "Attention! All eyes right here now!"

Most of the pub goers kept to their own business, but when Samuel Harper scrambled onto a table and banged his mug up against the rafters, some took notice. "Yes sirees, step right up folks! I have an announcement to make!"

His friends cheered him on. One stuck two fingers in his mouth and blew a screeching whistle.

"Yeah, Sam!"

"Hey, you blokes, lend him an ear!"

Harper gave a smart bow and waved. "Ladies and gentlemen, and folks of all legal classifications, today, I am now officially part of the Guild of Themis!" With a palm, he held up a pair of small golden scales and a rolled-up piece of parchment tied with red ribbon. "The United Kingdom's official organization of barristers and law practitioners! I am now certified by the Ministry of Magic - bless 'em all - to practice, in the court of law, in the name of the people. You!"

Harper pointed in his direction. Lupin glanced behind him.

_"Woke up in an awful state _

_Dreamt I was at Peter's Gate _

_Beggin' for his mercy _

_And the crimes that were at hand..."_

"Whoa now, folks!" Harper jumped down from the head and pushed past several crowded tables. "Here is the bloke who did it all for me!" he announced, gesturing with both index fingers at Lupin's head. "This man is my godsend, this here's Mister... Mister, uh..." He poked Lupin's shoulder. "Run it by me again?"

_"He told me he was much amused _

_To see this life I had abused _

_'Best be on your way, but have a swig before you go!'" _

"Douglas Ridley," Lupin muttered under his breath, trying discreetly to move aside.

"Douglas Ridley!" yelled Harper, as he clapped an arm around Lupin's shoulders, pinning him in. "Now, listen, Mr. Ridley, for I'll promise something, just to show my gratitude," he drawled, holding him tight to his chest. He leaned forward and Lupin had a distinct sense that it wasn't just his success that made him so exuberant.

_"So I'm bringing in the New Year _

_As the bells began to ring..." _

"I will serve you, my friend. When ever, what ever, where ever why ever, how ever you may need me, I will be there. There for you, because I care." Harper slipped a card into Lupin's palm and gave his back a hefty whack as he stood up. "Anytime, mate."

_"Fats is in the corner, she's just about to sing _

_Time to get another, before the final shout..."_

"Certainly." Lupin put the card in his pocket. "Thankee."

_"You should have heard them roarin' _

_When they dragged the bugger out!"_

The brute began dancing around the room, spinning topsy-turvy as the chorus rang, "_And we'll never see the likes of you again--!"_

"And we'll never... we'll never..." he blubbered. If Lupin had been paying attention to him instead of Harper, he might have been about to stop what would happen next.

"Sure. 'Member that now. Not many times in your life you get to work with the likes of-" Harper swiftly straightened the lapels of his jacket, "Samuel Lee Harper." His cocked a finger at him, turned heel and strutted back to his friends, who were howling uproariously at his display.

_"No, we'll never see the likes of you again!"_

"Someone's sweet on ye," Lottie cackled into her cup. "Ah'd ask wha' favor ye did for him, bu' Ah probably wunnae lak tae know."

"Only some test takin' advice," he supplied quickly. "Give the boy some credit. He just passed the bar after takin' it five times through."

"Services from any barrister isn't a blessin'," Finney said, sipping his Guinness. " 'Tis plain askin' for trouble."

"Askin' for trouble." Moseley nodded, dipping his beard into the foam of the mug.

_"No, we'll never--"_

" - see the likes of you again!" The brute tripped over his own boots and crashed headlong into Lottie, sending both their drinks splashing across Lupin and the couple beside him.

"Bugger!" exclaimed she. "Watch where yu're goin'!"

The brute spin heel, blinked for several moments, adjusted his vision and applied the rude remark to the first person he saw. "You," he slurred, poking Lottie in the side. "What'd ye call me?"

"Ah dunnae caul ye aneethin'," Lottie muttered. She flicked droplets of beer off her hands and wiped them on her clothes, which did no use considering her whole front was soaked. Moseley gestured to the bartender for some napkins. "'Cept eff ye wanted me tae start, Ah'd say yer a clumsy oaf."

"Clumsy?" The brute spluttered. He squinted and swayed, but Lupin could clearly see the sparks of anger were beginning to go off in the man's eyes. "Weel, who are ye to say?" He recognized the janitorial garb. "A garbage picker, eh?"

Immediately, the Squib had her hackled up as well. "Dunnae ye start," Lottie growled.

"Wha'? Can't find any other work to do, eh? I see why." The brute laughed. "Ye ain't nothin' but a Muggle," he hissed. "Wizard servant."

Lottie froze as if she had been slapped. At first, Lupin was confused. Surely the man wasn't as drunk to know he wasn't in a wizard bar--

"Wha' did ye caul mi?" Lottie said, tensely. Her fist closed around Finney's drink. Moseley and Finney froze, as if struck dumb by the word. Uncertainty ensnared them all.

The brute said it again. "Muggle."

Lottie's arm whipped forward--

_Splash!_

The beer dripped from the brute's face, anger distorting his features. "Why ye liddin-" He swung. Lupin moved to catch his arm, but missed.

Lottie ducked, tumbled, and rolled, like a bouncing hamster, underneath a nearby table.

Finney was the first to react. "Hey thaur!" he started, grabbing an arm the girth of a small tree trunk.

Lottie darted out from the table. A missile was thrown, bonked the brute square between the eyes, and hit the floor. It was her shoe. And as quick as the throw, she was gone, back under the table.

"Hold on!" Lupin took hold of the insulted man's arm. The brute gave an irritated roar and dove towards the janitor's sanctuary, heedless of both Finney and Lupin, who flopped about like rag dolls. Finney let go and crashed into a nearby table; Lupin worked his way up until both arms were around the other man's neck. "Calm down!" he kept shouting. "Calm down!"

Moseley scrambled on hands and knees under the table to handle Lottie. He held back her arm, which held the other ill-intended shoe; she struggled in retaliation.

"Sod off, Mo! Lemme git him agin! Lemme git him - hic - agin!"

Lupin tightened his grip around the man's neck; it was like trying to hug a boulder. He became a cowboy straddling a wild mustang, so wild was the struggle. His arms slackened; he buried his fingernails into the man's shirt collar. "Someone get him down!" he ordered.

Finney, still dazed, rubbed his head from his seat on the ground. The bartender pushed out of the swinging door to the main floor and took hold of the drunken man's arm. "Let him go! You're chokin' him!"

The man stumbled, drunk and dizzy, then fell upon his knees to the floor. Yet until the man grew still, Lupin didn't loosen his hold.

"What the blazes!" the bartender shouted. "Stop it, the lot of you!"

Moseley dragged Lottie out of her commandeered fort. Lottie pushed her body about back and forth, her hair a spinning mop of mouse brown. She got to her feet swaying and shouting. "Ah'm nut a Muggle!" she screamed in full brogue. "Ah'm nut a Muggle!"

Moseley held her from behind in a great bear hug and she jerked and kicked, yelling full blast: "Ah'm a Pureblood! For the last fifteen genarashuns! Ah'm a Pureblood! Dunnae be caullin' mi a Muggle! Leuk at mi! Ma familee goes bac fifteen generashuns in pureblood! Fifteen!"

"Hold it there, Lottie," Lupin pacified, moving towards her.

"Anybody hurt? Anybody hurt?" Lupin raised his head to see Harper worming his way through the crowd, a handful of cards ready. "Samuel Lee Harper, Barrister at Law," he said, tucking one into the brute's hand. "Did she assault you, sir? You can press charges."

"For sakes' man!" exclaimed Lupin. He placed himself between the barrister and the brute. "You have no business here."

"Assault!" repeated Harper, jumping up and down in order to see past Lupin. With a quick scoop, he took Lottie's shoe and flourished it. "With a deadly weapon!" he added.

"Mr. Harper!"

One of the barrister's friends moved in. "Hey, Sam, quit it," he hissed, giving an apologetic look toward Lupin. He pulled Harper away, who was making fluttering motions with his arms and saying, "Think about it! Owl me! Owl me!"

"How are ye, Phineas?" Lupin asked, pulling the man to his feet.

The stoker wobbled then got a grip on the back of a chair. "Still spinnin'," he answered. "Bu' I think I kin stay oop."

Meanwhile, Moseley dragged Lottie to the door, pinning her arms to her sides in a great bear hug. The head custodian squirmed and bellowed, her short legs kicking as her fists did windmills in the air. "Fifteen!" she slurred and her lower lip began to tremble. "Fifteen," she said, sniffing. "An' leuk at ye! Ah betcha yer aa Mudbloods!" Her lips twisted into an unbecoming sneer. "The whole... the whole lot oo yers!" she yelled, her face screwing up in intoxicated rage.

Incensed again, her aggressor lumbered onto his feet, but the bartender gave him a push toward the exit with both hands. "Leave!" he spat. "Before I call the MLES on you!"

The man gave a grunt, took a step backwards and raised an arm, as if about to clobber the bartender to the ground.

Lupin turned around. Glaring, he said softly, "Do what the man says."

The man met Lupin's stare, then, reluctantly, lowered his arm. Then, he turned heel and stormed from the pub, slamming the door behind him. Like water down the drain, the mounting tension flowed out. Yet there was still the aftermath to deal with. The bartender wasted no breath dishing it out to them.

"Don't be all smug now that he's gone," he snapped. "I want all of you out."

"Hold your dragons," Finney objected. " T'wasn't us who started it."

Moseley agreed, "T'wasn't us."

"The Mudblood did it!" Lottie interjected. "Akis mi familee is..."

"Pureblood," Lupin finished. "Yes, we know." Moseley patted her shoulder and guided them further away from the bar. Finney, now firmly on his feet again, argued with the bartender, who was red-faced and gesturing firmly toward the door.

"We dunnae started it! Eef thaur was a problem, then Lottie's nut it!"

"No! The whole lot of yer ruffians! I'll have none of this at the Flying Leviathan," the bartender shouted. "I can still call."

Lottie broke away from Moseley and stuck her pug nose in the air. "We was jus' gunna be leavin'," she said stiffly. "Ah wunnae stay where mi heritage is insulted." Moseley picked up her shoe from where Harper dropped it. With defiance gleaming in her eye, Lottie accepted her lost footwear and stuck it firmly back in place.

"We're very sorry," Lupin replied. He placed a pile of Sickles onto the counter, a whole paycheck's worth. "For the trouble we caused."

"Aye." Finney drew out his limp coin purse and put in his smaller share. Moseley silently flicked several Knuts onto the lacquered surface.

"G'nicht, aa oo ye." Trying to retain the group's dignity, Finney tipped his cap to them and led the way out. Mo followed with Lottie, straight-backed and slipping, and Lupin trailed last, not looking back.

Outside, the cool night air made them all tighten their robes.

"Lottie dunnae always git lak this," Finney said. "Jus' drunk tae much this time."

"Tae much," Moseley affirmed.

"Ah'm nut drunk!" defended Lottie. "Ye... ye du believe mi?" She held onto Lupin's robes with a weak fist. "Mi familee's the greatest oo wizards arund! 'Tis all in the blood! 'Tis mi blood tae! Akis... akis Ah'm a Pureblood! Mi familee goes bac fifteen generashuns...!"

Loretta Gordon was a throwback from the sixteenth generation. The "pureblooded" Squib, whose drop of Muggle blood betrayed all the magic potential within her. She wasn't truly pure, and her family certainly couldn't be, even if they did marry pureblood wizards for more than a dozen generations. But let her believe what she wanted; Lupin could not bring himself to say otherwise. Lottie needed to believe this, he supposed.

"We wunnae be goin' bac thaur aneeways," Finney muttered. "The bar charges more than it's worth." With a reining hand, he pulled Lottie in before she wandered into the street. "Never mind them," he said to her. "Time tae get bac hame."

"Hame..." She gave blubbering sigh, and stuffed both fists into her pockets. "Ah'll shew them," she muttered. "Insultin' mi mither's an' father's good name..." But she quieted down with a few doleful hiccups. Moseley patted her back in sympathy.

"Is anybody needin' a ride?" Lupin asked.

"Nah." Finney replied. "We live oop in the tenement square jus' doun a couple blocks. How aboot ye?" he questioned. "Eef ye want, yu can stay wi' us."

Lupin declined politely. "I couldn't impose," he said. "Go on." In truth, he didn't want to stay with them any longer. He got tired of the whole fiasco, and only wanted to be alone from it all, with no embarrassing reminders, like the hangover Lottie would be suffering in the morning.

"Ye sure?"

Lupin nodded before realising that he had no way of getting back to his own tenement. This part of the city was unfamiliar to him. Returning to the pub and asking them for call the Knight Bus was out of the question. But he'll take the next Muggle bus route he supposed.

At the end of the block was the nearest deport. He plunked himself down on the lone bench and sighed, running a hand through his hair. Turning his head, he watched as the last traces of the trio disappeared around the corner. He would miss them, he decided to himself, when he left Edinburgh.

"Mr. Ridley?"

Lupin looked over his shoulder to see Harper exited an alleyway with a shabby-looking broomstick tucked under his arm. "Spotted you before taking off to high air," he explained, "and touched back down."

"Have you ever thought of chasing ambulances for a livin'?" Lupin asked, unsure whether he was kidding or not. "I see potential."

"My goals are lofty," the barrister quipped.

"Where are your friends?"

"Oh, we decided to call it quits early. The Leviathan wasn't too chummy after you blokes left." He took a seat next to him. For a moment, Harper stiffened, observing Lupin oddly. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"As of this moment. Why?"

"You look a bit... off-centre," he answered. "Your eyes are a bit strange. Did you get a new set of glasses?"

"I don't think so."

"Whatever then." Harper blinked, shook his head a bit then struck a conversational pose. "Sorry about what happened at the brawl earlier," he added.

"Well, as long your little intrusion didn't persuade the brute to press charges."

"Why are you waiting here for?"

"The bus of course."

"Bus?" Harper repeated. "Say, do you need a lift?" He held out his broom. The item belonged at an antique shop; Lupin wondered if it could truly fly.

"Or else, I was thinkin' about walkin' - "

"Don't bother. This way, it's free and quick."

"But -"

"Hey, I owe you a favor. And besides," he added, "do you really want to wait here until the bus shows up? Or spend the money for a ride? You shelled out a lot at the pub."

The newly-anointed barrister had a point. Lupin gave in. "Fine."

Harper tossed his broom and miraculously, it floated in mid-air. Swinging a leg over, he said, "Hop onto the back. There're side straps."

"Not many people use broomsticks nowadays," he commented as he climbed on. Lupin slipped his hands into the leather straps that were attached to the sides of the broom in front of him, like a horse's reins. Thankfully, a Cushioning Spell was placed on it, making sitting more comfortable than it looked.

"If I'm going to have a tipple, I never forget it," Harper replied. "Try Apparating home from a pub, and you might find some of your limbs in floating in the Channel." Another jack-o-lantern grin crossed his face. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to accept his offer.

But before he could protest, Harper kicked off the pavement. "Up!"

Unprepared, Lupin fell back, got some broom bristles jammed into some delicate places, and rub burn on his hands as the leather slipped too fast from his hold. He twisted his fingers around the flimsy straps, hoping that they wouldn't snap.

They rose as high as the building tops in the first leap; Harper jerked his legs out like a chicken flailing for dear life in an attempt to fly, thumped his knees against the handle, and suddenly the clouds came hurrying down to meet them.

The regret began to mount along with the altitude. "Aren't we a little high?" he asked.

"What?" Harper yelled over the screeching wind.

"A little high--?"

"Well, I had a reefer or two," confessed Harper, laughing, "but that was _hours_ ago!"

Oh dear God.

The world flipped upside-down as they turned loop-de-loops in the thinning atmosphere.

"Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee!" said Harper.

"Ahhhhh!" said Lupin.

Dizziness confused his senses and still remained even when the circular motion stopped. Lupin realized it was from lack of oxygen.

"Now, where did you live again?" Harper asked, turning his head. His eyes were drooping and a faint blue coloured his lips.

He exclaimed urgently, "We must go down!"

"But I know a shortcut..."

"Cutting through the stratosphere is not a shortcut," Lupin retorted, gasping for breath with the effort. A fog crept over his vision as the lightheadedness increased. He stuck out an arm and reached over, trying to grab the front of the broom away from Harper.

"Mr. Ridley!" chuckled Harper as Lupin's arm crossed his chest from behind. "That's not my cup of tea, really!"

"Go down!" Lupin took hold of the broomstick and shoved it towards the earth. They dive-bombed.

"Hey, don't be a back-seat flyer!" Harper batted him away with both hands. Now the broom began to spiral as they dropped to the ground--

"Don't let go!" Lupin exclaimed, feeling the need to state the obvious. Lupin pushed from underneath one of Harper's flailing arms, hauled the handle up to a level position and steadied their flight. Giving a deep sigh of relief, he then grabbed Harper's hands and fastened his fingers down on the broomstick. "You. Hold. Stay. That's a good boy."

"Whoa... Didn't mean to do that, Mr. Ridley," said Harper, raising a meek hand. "Must have had more to drink than I thought-"

"You. Hold," Lupin repeated tensely, placing the hand back in front of him. "I'll give the directions from here on."

"Okay then," Harper replied readily. He carefully flew the rest of the way, wobbling a little now and then, until Lupin guided him back to the street. Lupin thanked his lucky stars as he touched firm pavement underneath his feet. "Thanks," he said.

"Yeah..." Harper gave a little chuckle, shrugging off his last mistake. "I'll see you around?"

"Are you able to make it back home?"

"I think so. If not, you'll probably be able to tell where I ended up by the man-shaped impression on the side of a building somewhere..." That smile, a little more sobered now, cropped up again. "You know, you're the cleverest Squib I ever met," he stated earnestly. "I don't think any of them would know how to control a broom in that situation. In fact," he mused, "I've never met a Squib who knew heads or tails about flying..."

"Let's just cough it up to a very strong survival instinct," Lupin replied quickly.

"Yeah." The young barrister tossed his head again. "Let's just call it that."

"And call it a night." Lupin had the door to the tenement building halfway open. "Good night Mr. Harper."

"The same to you, Mr. Ridley," Harper said, kicking off again. "Same to you."

Lupin watched him leave. The man swerved past the traffic light, sideswiped a row of tenements, then crested the last building, disappearing from view. He might have been better off Apparating; having limbs floating in the Channel was a safer risk than limbs dashed into the concrete.

Morning came and found Lupin sitting on the bed making the final touches to a dog-eared piece of parchment. Along the top he drawn in huge, clipped letters "WANTED" and on the bottom were the words: REMUS J. LUPIN. REWARD _5,000 Galleons_. He thought of placing the tag line "Dead or Alive" under the word WANTED but he didn't want to send the wrong message. In the centre he pasted that newspaper photo about him that ran seven weeks ago (Was it only that long ago? It seemed so much longer...), the one with him reading. Much time and effort was put into this. The MLES officers better notice.

If he was going to turn himself in, at least he could do so with flair; it was his mischievousness streak talking. Sirius would have got a kick out of it anyhow, if he knew. Well, at least he would have enjoyed the concept of a wanted sign. Putting it up was another matter entirely.

"Mr. Ridley," Mr. Burtman chuckled. Lupin caught a hint of nervousness in the Director of Being Resources' voice. "What brings you to my office today?"

Perhaps what is making the Director so nervous is the fact the person he was seeing wasn't Douglas Ridley. Lupin donned no magical cologne this time; nothing blinded the Director from seeing the truth.

Lupin slipped in and shut the door behind him. Underneath one arm was his uniform, though he still wore the cap. Easing himself into the opposite chair, he took the cap off and placed it in his lap.

"I have a problem with that job contract."

In the corner, the spirit niffler raised its ghostly head and called softly.

"Job contract?"

"May I see it please?"

Lupin sat there, with his hands folded, an expression of complete tranquility on his face. The charm that the Director possessed was now all gone, and what remained as a simple, frightened man who had some feline issues. Lupin remained there until something seemed to break within the Ministry official, and he scrambled out of his seat, knees wobbly, over to the massive file cabinets were the contracts were contained. He then brought them over, and placed them on the desk. Lupin noticed that the velvet pouch he used before wasn't there.

"Are you missing anything?" Lupin asked. "I believe you had a sample of--"

"Those are non-returnable," Mr. Burtman snapped, taking up his stance once more.

"It's all right; I'm sure I'll get it back eventually."

Taking the legal document in his hands, Lupin said, "I'd like to adjust this a bit, if you don't mind."

"And how do you--" began Mr. Burtman.

_Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrip!_

In one, long motion, Lupin tore the parchment in half.

The Director was beside himself in shock. He stared at Lupin, his mouth opening and shutting like a fish out of water.

Lupin gave a small shrug, as if saying, "What the hell?" and tore the paper again. And again. And again. Soon, Douglas Ridley's job contract was shredded in his hands. Lupin let go and they scattered like confetti all over the Director of Being Resources's plush carpet.

Mr. Burtman finally found his tongue again. "Mr. Ridley!" he exclaimed. His wand was held in one hand, but it trembled. Lupin made a move toward him and the Director, letting out a frightened squeal, dropped it. The wand sank into the plush; Lupin reached down and scooped it up with a lazy hand.

"Nice wand you have here." He gave a casual flourish as he took a couple steps around the desk. When the wand moved in the Director's direction, he gave out another shriek and hid behind his leather chair. His tail stuck out, stiff as a board behind him.

"Yew, I see, with an augury tail feather?" Lupin guessed. "Good for minor underhanded schemes, but," He tapped the arm of the chair lightly. "Very weak otherwise." He carefully placed his uniform on the desk, topping it off with his hat.

"And don't call me Mr. Ridley," Lupin corrected calmly.

Mr. Burtman's hand was tapping fervently against the bottom of the desk. Ah, so now he was calling security. Boy, wouldn't that save Lupin a lot of time.

He gestured to his uniform. "The Ashwinder eggs are still there," he informed him. "In all seriousness, sir, get your yacht."

The Director reduced to spluttering again. The spirit niffler turned loops in her cage in the corner, emitting a high wailing noise of alarm.

"You may get word of Douglas Ridley's letter of resignation today," he added. "Sent it by Owl Post this morning, but you know who slow the system works sometimes." Lupin flashed a devil-may-care grin at him, feeling it was quite apropos. Returning the wand back to the desktop, he then strode to the open doorway. "Have a nice day, Mr. Burtman," Lupin ended and shut the door.

Unfortunately, he did not run into security. Ah well.

Lupin jumped into the elevator. "Department of Magical Law Enforcement," he called out.

The elevators, recognizing a new authority in his voice, promptly sent him to his final destination. Lupin moved swiftly, past the hubbub desks and workers. Strange how it is, for no one recognize him now, too busy with their own lives to realise he was there. Sure, if he charged in, wand raised, voice shouting, he would have gotten the attention he needed. Still, Remus Lupin had a fondness for subtlety.

Lupin made it to the public lobby of the department unnoticed. A front desk graced this area, with chairs for waiters, a bubbler, and an oblivious officer eating a doughnut and reading the paper. Plucking out a tack from the cork bulletin board, Lupin pinned his wanted sign firmly into the plaster wall. Next, he took a step back and put a hand to his chin, as if pondering the Mona Lisa.

One of the passing officers stopped, took a look at the poster, then at Lupin, then at the poster again. Another stopped, and then another. The man at the desk looked up.

"Good morning officers," Lupin said cheerfully, turning to face them. "As you can see, I am a wanted fugitive." He lifted an open palm toward the sign. "My reward is only a personal estimate and a bit over-exaggerated I'm sure."

Silence.

Slowly, slowly, everything tumbled forth. Recognition blossomed upon the officers' faces. The one at the desk let his doughnut drop.

One moment.

Now, the air snapped, and everything flew into action. Breath drew in, eyes turned into moons, hands reached for wands-

"I'm taking care of myself now, Kevin," whispered Lupin as the single command fired through him like a bullet:

"_Stupefy!_"

End of Part 6.


	7. Law vs Justice

**Summary:** Sirius has a talk with the Trio, and a youngbarrister gets his first case: an assault charge against a wizarding werewolf...

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. In addition, character dialogue from _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_, Chapter 27: "Padfoot Returns" is used in Chapter 23.  
**Author notes:** As always, thank you to my beta-readers Don H., and Liz S. Also, a warm thank you goes out to Pallas Athena for her input. And extra special hugs go out to all my readers, who have been so patient!

Revised: May 2005

WOLF BY EARS

Part Seven: Law vs. Justice

By D.M.P.

Justice? - You get justice in the next world, in this world you have the law.

- William Gaddis, _A Frolic of His Own_

Chapter 23

Ah, steak. Sirius blew off several flies surrounding the piece of meat and sniffed it delicately. Hey, even when it's three days old, it's still steak. Taking the fetid chuck in his jaws, Sirius backed out from the overturned rubbish can and dropped it in the dirt. With his nose, he pushed off various bits that were not usually associated with steak and licked it. Strangely enough, it tasted like mustard.

He turned his head and saw Zaria by his side. When did she show up? She had a bone in her mouth and dropped it by his find. Carefully, she dragged her tongue along the length of it, as if cleaning off the dirt. Cleaning off the dirt rather... slowly. And deliberately. Using quite a bit of tongue.

Then suddenly, he wasn't in the mood for steak. Zaria held up the bone by one end, not the proper way to hold it. Sirius gripped the other end with his teeth, and then noticed how short his muzzle was, or even the fact he lacked a muzzle entirely. Then he noticed how human he was.

Then he noticed how nude he was.

He blinked and dropped his end of the bone.

He was naked. She was naked. Well, she was a dog and society deemed it perfectly natural for her to walk about in her birthday suit. But for him and her to be together, naked, was a very bad idea in general. The implications grew...

Sirius' subconscious recoiled, and very abruptly, he awoke.

First thing he did was check to see if he was fully clothed. He was.

Buckbeak lifted his head. "Craw?"

"Nothing," Sirius snapped. "Mind your own bloody business for once."

The hippogriff tilted his head to the side, blinked, then settled back down to sleep.

Sirius took a stick and stirred up the smoldering ashes. His mind blanked out for a moment, as if too traumatized to acknowledge what he just dreamt, but slowly, he confronted himself with it.

It was she and he, rummaging through garbage. Nothing special. They only happened to lack clothing at the time. Gods forbid, he didn't _do _anything to her. Frankly, the concept was plainly disgusting. Sirius could remember the sticky feel of the trash he trod on. Most definitely _not_ a sex dream.

And it wasn't his fault, damn it. Maybe he had been hanging around in dog form for far too long and the effects were starting to get to him. Outside influences corrupt the brain too. That was the explanation; Sirius had no affection at all toward creatures of the four-legged variety, but because everyone commented on the _possibility_ of it, licentious thoughts must have seeped into the cracks of his mind.

Thus, Sirius avowed to himself _not_ to go down to the village, but to stay up in his cave, to scrutinize his papers, and _not to think about dogs._

Yet, the only outcome to this resolution was loneliness. He missed the lively activity at the Three Broomsticks. He missed the view from Rosmerta's behind - and yes, he insisted to himself, he liked Rosmerta's behind very, _very_ much because it was a _human_ behind and a fine one at that. But, most of all, he missed the food.

In truth, he wasn't masking any subconscious desire that said otherwise; he really did miss the food. Spending so much time at the Hogsmeade tavern had truly spoiled his tastes. Now, rat-hunting left him with a nauseating taste in his mouth, not the satisfied thrill of imagining Peter's blood on his tongue. So, he stopped hunting altogether for the past day or so. Besides, rats were starting to get scarce, unless he went into town, which was not on the top of his priority list.

Rumblings from the depths of his stomach were ample proof of his dining habits taking a turn for the worst. But he wasn't going back. It was a matter of pride. And by hell Sirius Black was man enough to deal with a bit of hunger now and then.

Still, that didn't stop him from asking Harry Potter to bring up as much grub as he possibly could when he visited.

A week after that... dream... of his, Sirius waited cautiously by the stile at the end of the road leading out of Hogsmeade. Sirius still maintained wariness about the town and refused to enter it, lest he saw Zaria again by accident. And by all means, he didn't want to see the Labrador again, accidently or not.

He collected a couple of old newspapers on his way to the meeting place, as a sort of distraction. Now, leaning against the topmost bar of the stile with the taste of bitter ink flooding his mouth, Sirius waited.

And as he waited, the prospect of seeing Harry came to him. Sirius was never a man to get nervous easily, but he did feel self-conscious about seeing his godson again. He was worried but didn't want to seem like a parent. Yet enough trouble was going on at Hogwarts to make him feel more than skittish. First and foremost was Karkaroff. Sirius had written more than one letter to Dumbledore expressing his concern, and only got short, even casual, replies. Yes, the Headmaster was keeping an eye on him and why doesn't Sirius accept this cherry pie in the meantime, for it's been awhile since he had last stopped at Hogwarts? Sirius accepted the food packages of course, but still couldn't refrain from his suspicions.

He wasn't so narrow-minded as to only focus on that, however. Crouch was another man who occupied his mind. Sirius didn't like to think of Crouch as anything but the scum of the earth, and only in the festive atmosphere of the Three Broomsticks had he been willing to read about the former Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. When he did, though, the bone he would be gnawing would suddenly snap in his jaws, no matter how thick it was.

Sirius discovered with a bit of relish about the unfortunate events that had befallen Bartemius Crouch after he had been sentenced to Azkaban. Crouch, with his merciless Aurors and his brutal war tribunals, deserved what he got. Having your son be a Death Eater and sentenced to Azkaban, plus the death of your wife - now that was certainly "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth." But Sirius had to admit, the man suffered a tragic loss, and with this strange illness he was going through, one could almost pity Crouch's situation. Almost.

His mysterious circumstance was something Sirius wanted to look out for, however. Even Dumbledore didn't know what was happening with him, and if Dumbledore didn't know something, then something was definitely askew.

To top it off, there was always that lurking question of Snape. Sirius had brought his mental categorising of his former classmate from "that snot-nosed, anal-retentive in need of a good scrubbing" to "that snot-nosed, anal-retentive in need of a good scrubbing but was slightly tolerable, despite the greasy hair." If Dumbledore trusted him, Sirius decided long ago, then he would have to put up with him as well.

Up ahead, he could see three forms coming towards him, all with their cloaks slung over their shoulders. Their leader had a bulging bag slung over his shoulder; obviously it was filled with the food Sirius had requested. Sirius' ears perked up.

Harry gave a small wave of his hand. "Hello Sirius," he greeted.

Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger stood behind him. They had only met up extensively with Sirius once before, when he was a raving maniac bent on crushing Peter Pettigrew into the Shrieking Shack floorboards. Little wonder they couldn't find the words to welcome him.

Still, Sirius got down from the stile and took a whiff from Harry's bag. Yes, the food was there. He gave a quick wag of his tail, and started back toward the cave at an eager pace. He really wanted to get that taste of ink out of his mouth.

Together, the small group ascended the mountain. Sirius took the shortest route he knew, but still there was quite a trek for the students. The scent of cooked food prompted him to speed up, however, and soon, they made it to the cave.

Buckbeak lifted his head upon their arrival; Sirius could tell by his expression that he noticed the presence of fresh food too.

Immediately, all three of them bowed before the hippogriff, paying respective homage. Buckbeak bent his knees in return, and Hermione rushed to pet him. Ah, Buckbeak could still get the ladies.

Sirius transformed into his human self, tossed the newspapers to the floor and spat grey-tinged saliva onto the floor. "Chicken!" he exclaimed when Harry presented the packed food to him. "Thanks."

Ripping open the package, he took a drumstick and bit into it. Despite the fact he didn't have a decent meal in a week, despite the fact that the chicken was freshly made, though cold, despite the fact that Sirius was grateful Harry brought this up for him, Sirius couldn't help thinking, _It's a bit on the dry side._ Oscar could make better with his eyes shut.

Sirius could see the concern in Harry´s eyes about his state of being.

"I've been living off rats mostly," he said. "Can't steal too much food from Hogsmeade; I'd draw attention to myself." Or maybe draw his attention to someone else...

He blinked. To eclipse the thought, he grinned up at Harry, who smiled back reluctantly. He asked, "What're you doing here, Sirius?"

"Fulfilling my duty as godfather," he replied as he chewed on the bone. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Buckbeak getting tense, wanting a bit to share. "Don't worry about it, I'm pretending to be a lovable stray."

Sirius tried to be light about it, but Harry didn't believe his tone. Sirius turned grave and answered, "I want to be on the spot. Your last letter... well, let's just say things are getting fishier. I've been stealing the paper every time someone throws one out, and by the looks of things, I'm not the only one who's getting worried."

Making a gesture to the pile of _Daily Prophet_ clippings, Sirius tossed his bone to Buckbeak, who caught it easily. Ron took the cue and picked up the articles Sirius picked out.

"What if they catch you?" Harry said, refusing to drop the topic. "What if you're seen?"

"You three and Dumbledore are the only ones around here who know I'm an Animagus," said Sirius, shrugging. He took another bite. At the moment, he didn't feel like dropping Zaria's name as well, because she was _just a __Labrador_and didn't count for anything.

Ron showed Harry the articles. Hermione, who noticed Buckbeak's attraction to the chicken bones, led the beast over before taking a look at the newspaper clippings herself. Buckbeak reached out and snapped at a half-finished drumstick Sirius held in his fist. Sirius glared at him, but, with a sigh, dropped that one to the ground for Buckbeak to scoop up. He reached for another one and discovered Buckbeak helping himself to a second. With a quick movement, he snatched the bag out from under the hippogriff's beak and held it to his chest protectively. Buckbeak snorted and Sirius pulled a face at him.

"They're making it sound like he's dying," Harry commented at last, oblivious to the silent conflict. "But he can't be that ill if he managed to get up here..."

"My brother's Crouch's personal assistant," Ron told Sirius, who had placed the package on the other side of him away from Buckbeak's reach. "He says Crouch is suffering from overwork."

"Mind you, he _did_ look ill, the last time I saw him up close..." Harry said while reading. "The night my name came out of the goblet..."

Hermione gave a caustic comment. "Getting his comeuppance for sacking Winky, isn´t he?" Sirius tossed another chicken bone to Buckbeak; he snatched it out of the air as Hermione sat down again to stroke his neck. "I bet he wishes he hadn´t done it now," she added, "bet he feels the difference now she´s not there to look after him."

Sirius raised his head.

"Hermione´s obsessed with house-elves," Ron said, rolling his eyes slightly and giving her a look.

"Crouch sacked his house-elf?" Sirius questioned, voicing his thought.

"Yeah, at the Quidditch World Cup," Harry explained. His account of the events surrounding the Quidditch event were laid forth, from the Dark Mark, to Winky the house-elf, to Mr. Couch´s reaction toward her disobedience. Sirius listened critically as he chewed. This was new information. Sirius began to pace, trying to sort it out in his mind.

Winky had the wand in her possession, but that didn´t necessarily mean that she was the one who took it, though she´s highly suspected. House elves had their own brand of magic, and surely she would have no personal reason to be with the Death Eaters. Crouch had been the Head of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement; his firing Winky was grounded in pretty good reasoning if he thought she conjured up the Dark Mark. Still, something didn´t seem right...

"Let me get this straight," he said, flourishing a chicken leg. "You first saw the elf in the Top Box. She was saving Crouch a seat, right?"

"Right," the children affirmed.

"But Crouch didn´t turn up for the match?"

"No," Harry answered. "I think he said he´d be too busy."

So, Crouch never turned up for the game. Odd, considering that he helped organize the whole event. Could have something went wrong the last minute which distracted him? Possibly. But that leaves the matter of Harry´s wand and how it got in the house-elf´s possession. Who else was in that Box?

Sirius broke his train of thought a second time to ask, "Harry, did you check your pockets for your wand after you´d left the Top Box?"

Harry´s brow furrowed in recollection. "No," he answered. "I didn´t need to use it before we got into the forest. And then I put my hand in my pocket, and all that was there were my Omniculars." His eyes turned back to Sirius. "Are you saying whoever conjured the Mark stole my wand in the Top Box?"

"It´s possible," Sirius replied.

Immediately, Hermione shot, "Winky didn´t steal that wand!"

"The elf wasn´t the only one in that box," Sirius pointed out. "Who else was sitting behind you?"

"Loads of people," said Harry. "Some Bulgarian ministers... Cornelius Fudge... the Malfoys..."

Ron jumped on the last part. "The Malfoys! I bet it was Lucius Malfoy!"

Could be, reasoned Sirius. He wasn´t too familiar with the Malfoys, other than what Harry had mentioned about that stuck-up boy Draco. That, and the Malfoys tried to have Buckbeak executed last year... "Anyone else?"

"No one," Harry replied.

"Yes there was; there was Ludo Bagman," Hermione reminded him.

"Oh yeah..."

Ludo Bagman, the Quidditch player? "I don´t know anything about Bagman except that he used to be Beater for the Wimbounre Wasps," Sirius said, deep in concentration as he paced. "What´s he like?"

"He´s okay," Harry replied. "He keeps offering to help me with the Triwizard Tournament."

Or Bagman may be more than offering help. Sirius recalled the announcer for the Second task. He seemed like an average former athlete, nothing special, though quite loud. Nevertheless, the suspicion crept in.

"Does he now?" he said, frowning. "I wonder why´d he do that?"

"Says he´s taken a liking to me."

Could Bagman be the possible saboteur? Or just an enthusiastic fan of Harry´s? "Hmmm..."

"We saw him in the forest just before the Dark Mark appeared," Hermione added helpfully. "Remember?" she said to her friends.

"Yeah, but he didn´t stay in the forest, did he?" Ron fired back. "The moment we told him about the riot, he went off to the campsite."

"How d´you know?" Hermione shot in return. "How d´you know where he Disapparated to?"

"Come off it," said Ron incredulously. "Are you saying you reckon Ludo Bagman conjured the Dark Mark?"

"It´s more likely he did it than Winky," Hermione protested.

"Told you," said Ron. He turned to Sirius. "Told you she´s obsessed with house-"

But Sirius held up a hand to silence Ron.

"When the Dark Mark had been conjured, and the elf had been discovered holding Harry´s wand, what did Crouch do?"

"Went to look in the bushes," said Harry, "but there wasn´t anyone else there."

"Of course," Sirius muttered, pacing up and down, "of course, he´d want to pin it on anyone but his own elf...and then he sacked her?"

"Yes," said Hermione in a heated voice, "he sacked her, just because she hadn´t stayed in her tent and let herself get trampled--"

"Hermione, would you give it a rest with the elf!" said Ron.

Sirius shook his head and said, "She´s got the measure of Crouch better than you have, Ron. If you want to know what a man´s like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals."

He ran a hand over his unshaven face, trying to puzzle things together.

"All these absences of Barty Crouch´s...he goes to the trouble of making sure his house-elf saves him a seat at the Quidditch World Cup, but doesn´t bother to turn up and watch. He works very hard to reinstate the Triwizard Tournament, and then stops coming to that too... It´s not like Crouch. If he´s ever taken a day off work because of illness before this, I´ll eat Buckbeak."

The hippogriff lifted his head. "Craw?"

"D´you know Crouch then?" said Harry.

Know him? Dark thoughts rolled over Sirius´s mind at the question. If there was anyone he hated more than that rat Pettigrew, Crouch was one of them.

"Oh I know Crouch all right," he said quietly. "He was the one who gave the order for me to be sent to Azkaban - without a trial."

"What?" Harry´s friends exclaimed.

A look of shock crossed his godson´s face. "You´re kidding!"

"No, I´m not," said Sirius. He took a vicious bite out of the chicken leg. "Crouch used to be the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, didn´t you know?"

The children shook their heads.

"He was tipped for the next Minister of Magic," said Sirius. "He´s a great wizard, Barty Crouch, powerfully magical - and power-hungry. Oh never a Voldemort supporter," he said, reading the look on Harry´s face. "No, Barty Crouch was always very outspoken against the Dark Side. But, then a lot of people who were against the Dark Side...well, you wouldn´t understand...you´re too young..."

"That´s what my dad said at the World Cup," said Ron. "Try us, why don´t you?"

What a plucky kid. A grin flashed across Sirius´s thin face.

"All right, I´ll try you..." He walked once up the cave, back again, and then said, "Imagine that Voldemort´s powerful now. You don´t know who his supporters are, you don´t know who´s working for him and who isn´t; you know he can control people so that they do terrible things without being able to stop themselves. You´re scared for yourself, and your family, and your friends. Every week, news comes of more deaths, more disappearances, more torturing...the Ministry of Magic´s in disarray, they don´t know what to do, they´re trying to keep everything hidden from the Muggles, but meanwhile, Muggles are dying too. Terror everywhere...panic...confusion...that´s how it used to be..."

_The mug sat on the table, its contents untouched. Occasionally, Sirius grabbed it, clenching the porcelain with his fingers, then banged it back down on the table. Drops of coffee splashed out each time he did so. Peter mopped up the minors spills with a paper napkin every time._

_"You´re going to break it," Peter said quietly, wiping down the table for the tenth time in a row. _

_"Why should I give a damn?" Sirius snatched the mug in his hands and held it to his face. The warmth of the cup disappeared about two hours ago and now even the smell of coffee was gone. He sipped at the stale liquid, then, in another fit of frustration, slammed the mug over the sink._

_Crash!_

_Peter flinched._

_The mug fractured into a dozen shards that dropped into the metal basin. An ugly stain spattered the chipped whitewashed wall above it and little brown rivulets dripped down._

_Sirius stormed out of the kitchen into the living room, running a hand through his hair. "How long do we have to wait?" he growled through his teeth. "When will he call?"_

_Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Peter put on a pair of rubber gloves, quietly gather up the broken pieces and dump them in the garbage pail. His hands were shaking. Sirius assumed it was from fear. He didn´t give a damn about Peter´s fear._

_"Needless violence won´t solve anything," he said simply. Peter made his way into the living room and plunked down on the sofa. "W- we could always turn on the telly again--" he began._

_Sirius whirled around. "Shut the fuck up!" he shouted, pointing an accusing finger at his friend. "Look, I don´t want to hear that repetitious bullshit again!"_

_Wordlessly, Peter turned on the television to the Wizard Network. The same reporter was there again, standing in the very same position as he did two hours before. And look, he was saying the same thing as well, only worded differently._

_"For those just tuning in, the Ministry officials have announced that they have made an arrest connected with last week´s slayings. They have not revealed the identity of the culprit as of yet, but they do say that he is a werewolf--"_

_Sirius slammed it off._

_"Enough," he whispered. "Enough..." _

_"We don´t know if it´s him," Peter reassured him. "They haven´t released anything on him yet..."_

_Sirius didn´t know whether he was angry or sad or frustrated. On one hand, it could be him, and those feelings stirred up a sharp sense of anger and betrayal. But then again, what if it wasn´t? What if he´s out there somewhere, and the Death Eaters caught him, or worse yet, the Ministry has him and who knows where the hell either party is going now--_

_Ring! _

_Sirius spun around and grabbed the phone. "Remus?"_

_"It´s Lily."_

_"Lily..."_

_Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Sirius, are you all right?"_

_"Yes, we´re all right." Sirius glanced at Peter. "We´re both here. Remus... he didn´t come back yet."_

_"Okay..."_

_"What about you and James?"_

_"James... he... he´s with Mundungus..."_

_"What´s going on there?"_

_"I-I don´t know, Sirius..."_

_Sirius met Peter´s eyes. Slowly, Peter got up and took out his wand._

_"I... I don´t know..." Her voice was breaking up over the line._

_"When will James get back?" Sirius demanded. "Lily, what is going on-?"_

_Did the Death Eaters get them? Was this really Lily talking to him, or someone else? Sirius´s throat went dry. He raised his head and Peter had his hand on the doorknob. Peter´s face went stark pale, but he wasn´t leaving. Not until Sirius was sure..._

_Panic was rising in Sirius´s stomach, making his knees weak. So close, so close... they were going to leave tomorrow! Dumbledore was sending for them tomorrow! This had to be Lily! _

_"Tell me the code." His grip on the receiver made his knuckles hurt. "Tell me the code."_

_"The... the sun rises in the east. The new day comes over __Dover__..." A pause. "I´m so sorry. I didn´t want to make you worry--"_

_"No, no, it´s okay, it´s okay..." Sirius waved a hand to Peter and he returned to his spot on the couch. "You don´t know nowadays. That´s all. Your voice, I thought by the sound of your voice..."_

_"I-I-I didn´t know who to call." Lily said shakily. Another hesitation. "My mum didn´t check in tonight."_

_"What do you mean? She´s always the first one-"_

_"I know. I know. She calls me, then I call you, then you call Arabella..." Lily´s voice started to collapse in on itself, becoming smaller and smaller. "James left an hour ago," she said. "Mum was supposed to check in and she didn´t. I´ve been waiting by the phone, but she... and I didn´t know who else to call. Professor Dumbledore´s been gone for a week, preparing for James and Harry and me, and so I couldn´t call him and I--" _

_In the background, a baby´s bawling rang out. _

_"Sirius, could you please-?"_

_"I´ll hold." Sirius closed his eyes and sank to the floor._

_Lily´s parents. No, the Death Eaters wouldn´t go for them, would they? Ye gods... _

_Peter kneeled down on the ground beside him. "What´s going on?" he asked._

_"Lily´s mum hadn´t checked in yet." Sirius stared at the floor. "James´s out."_

_"So now it´s three." Peter said listlessly._

_"Remus will come back," Sirius said slowly. "He knows that everyone´s supposed to be back at the flat by nine."_

_So many things have never gone so wrong before. It was a perfect system. Or at least as perfect as they could make it. A curfew was established between everyone in the group, which included Sirius and his friends, their families, the others working with Dumbledore. Everyone had to be back by nine. Then, the phone tree would start. Lily´s parents would call Lily and James, then they would check up on Sirius, Peter and Lupin, then they would call Arabella, who would call Mundungus, who would call Molly and Arthur, and so on and so forth. For the past year this was the basic plan. Until tonight, when the werewolf arrests were made. And now everything was crashing down._

_Now it was __midnight__ and Lupin still wasn´t home yet. Lily´s parents hadn´t called yet. No one knows what had happened to them and, worst of all, no one could do anything about it without endangering themselves. Sirius hated this. The world was closing in on them and he hated this. _

_They were trapped. All of them were trapped. For the last few years, their freedom had been sliced away with a knife of terror and now... now people couldn´t even leave their houses without fear._

_Over the phone, Sirius heard muffled words. Harry was still crying, loudly. _

_"Hush, hush, my dear," Lily whispered. "Hush, now, honey... There, there..."_

_The baby´s cries softened._

_"There, there..."_

_Lily picked up the receiver again. "I´m back."_

_"Yeah... listen, I´m glad you called. You shouldn´t be left alone with Harry like this..."_

_"Look, I didn´t mean to break down like that," Lily said, her voice firm. "I´ll be fine. I only needed to know that someone was there."_

_"Hey, I´ll be here." Sirius said readily. "I´ll be here any time you need me. Remember that."_

_"Thanks." The smile in her voice lifted Sirius´s heart. He heard Lily shift in her seat, then the cooings of her son. "Do you want to speak with your godfather, Harry? Do you want to say hello to Sirius?" _

_"Put him on." The tension began to ebb away. Sirius relaxed, slightly, and motioned Peter to sit closer so he could listen._

_"Here´s Harry." She moved the receiver over and then--_

_"Gah," Harry burbled._

_"Well, here´s a gah´ back at ya. Are you keeping your mum safe, Harry?"_

_"Bloogah."_

_Sirius chuckled for the first time in days. "You´re gonna be a big boy now. Tell your mum to be careful and keep an eye on her, okay?"_

_"I´m sure Harry will try his best." Lily said, getting back on the phone. "Say goodbye to Sirius, Harry."_

_An indistinguishable sound came from the other end of the line._

_Lily laughed. "That´s his take on goodbye."_

_"Quite the talker."_

_"Oh...!" A sigh of relief came from Lily. "James is back. James--" Silence for a few moments, then an outcry of joy._

_"They´re fine? Sirius," Lily gasped breathlessly. "They´re fine! There was an auto accident on the road - a telephone pole was hit - and the phone lines had to be cut... but they´re fine..."_

_"That´s good." Sirius grinned broadly at Peter. "That´s very good."_

_Peter managed a small, shaky smile in return._

_Now that her personal anxiety was over, the other concern took hold of Lily. "But what about Remus? He still hasn´t-?"_

_"No." Sirius´s grin folded into a tight line at the reminder. "Maybe it´s best that we get off now, to keep the line clear."_

_"Yes, yes," Lily agreed. "Listen, if Remus isn´t back in two hours, call us."_

_"I will." He hung up and rose to his feet. As he started to pace, Sirius sorted out the mix of emotions running through him. "At least they´re safe," he said slowly. "Peter, at least they´re safe."_

_"Look, Sirius," Peter got up and made a move toward him. Sirius turned away, still pacing._

_"Hey Sirius," Peter said in a firmer tone. "Sirius--"_

_"What?"_

_"I know what you´re thinking," he said softly. "It´s been running through my mind too..."_

_"What're you talking about?"_

_"About Remus."_

_Sirius halted. _

_"T-the people at the Ministry, they´ve known about Dark Creatures taking the Dark Lord´s side," Peter said slowly. "Ever since those giants were caught last year."_

_Their eyes met. Sirius could tell that his own thoughts were reflected in Peter´s eyes. Except where Sirius raged, Peter had cold acceptance._

_"James and Lily..." Sirius trailed off. "Dumbledore talked to them a couple weeks ago... About hiding them away... James, he... he asked me to be their Secret Keeper." He looked into Peter´s eyes. "No one knew except for us... and Remus..."_

_"And now you think...?"_

_"I have to switch," he whispered. Clearing his throat, he then said in a low tone, "You have to be their Keeper, Peter. No one would ever think it was you..." He closed his eyes. "Not even Remus."_

_Peter nodded silently. "Well, well, um, when are you going to tell James?"_

_"Tomorrow," he replied firmly. "When I help them pack up. You coming?"_

_A strange, strained look crossed Peter´s face then. Sirius, in retrospect, should have read more into that expression, but he didn´t._

_"The-the Ministry´s asked me to work then," Peter said quickly. "You know, getting some more paperwork done and all..."_

_"I see." Sirius nodded._

_Peter paused. "Will Remus be coming?"_

_"Yes." Sirius raised his head. "But I won´t tell," he said softly. "He´ll never even suspect..."_

_The front door opened in the living room. Both men raised their heads._

_Lupin came in, face flushed from running. "I came home as soon as I heard," he said breathlessly. "There´s been an arrest in connection to--"_

_"I know," Sirius said flatly. Trying to cover your tracks now? he thought bitterly. _

_"I was with Derek Bones when it broke. We were at the Ministry. He´s calling his wife."_

_Peter made a stiff nod. "Derek would want to see his parents' murderers," he said softly._

Sirius finished relating to Harry and his friends about the dark times he lived in. He talked about how vicious and suspicious life was back then, and the guilt welled up in his heart once more. Somehow, though, those feelings were dried and up dead, like tumbled leaves piling up in autumn. They layered in folds around his heart, and he felt their weight, but not their pain. All those years in Azkaban have done this to him; he could talk about the old times now and feel barrenness where the agony used to be. It was better that he was able to become emotionally void.

"He gave his own son to the Dementors?" asked Harry quietly.

Sirius had been aware of their questions before and answered them matter-of-factly. He had a loaf of bread in his hands now and was chewing it thoroughly until the bits of food mashed into a tasteless pulp before swallowing. Then, each swallow became more and more heavy, and Sirius chewed harder and harder as he ate.

"That´s right," he said slowly, after forcing down another bit of bread. His throat was suddenly feeling dry now and the bread seemed to scrape against his throat.

"I saw the Dementors bringing him in, watched them through the bars of my cell door..."

A chill wind entered the cave; or at least, Sirius thought one had. As if summoned by a spell, the atmosphere of Azkaban entered his mind. Young Crouch, he remembered, was stiff. His face was ashen grey, and he moved like a zombie, with one foot in front of the other in an iron-clad pace. He tried looking noble, like he didn´t care - all of them did, even Sirius, when he was first brought in - but it was all a mask of manhood and steel-plated bravery that never withstood time.

"He couldn´t have been more than nineteen," Sirius said softly. He could hear the clanking sounds of the chains around the boy´s feet. They scraped against the stone floor; the boy couldn´t lift his feet high enough to lift them from the ground.

Once in the cell, though, the chains were taken off; people never struggled by then. The moans and screams from the other prisoners echoed in his mind. Sirius felt the grainy texture of the bars of his cell door. He was looking down into the darkened hallways, in the dancing pools of light the smoky torches cast upon the ground. And there was the poor boy, entering the cell and having his shackles removed. The boy flinched when the Dementor leaned down by him; Sirius saw something beneath the hood twitch, as if the abomination was resisting the pull of the wizard´s soul. The sickly, crawling feeling gathered in the pit of Sirius´s stomach, and he wanted to turn away, but he didn´t. Young Crouch was new flesh; everyone - the prisoners, the guards, the Dementors - were all fascinated by new flesh.

"They took him into a cell near mine. He was screaming for his mother by nightfall. He went quiet after a few days, though... they all went quiet in the end... except when they shrieked in their sleep..."

Sirius wasn´t talking to Harry anymore. He was talking to himself while staring out the bars of his cell door, muttering in a raspy voice, "He´ll be gone by nightfall, gone by nightfall, gone by nightfall." At the time, Sirius thought that remark was extremely funny and slapped his hands against the cell door. "Gone by nightfall!" he had howled. A mad guffaw, more like a shriek than actual laughter, burst from his chest and he shouted, louder, "You´ll be gone by nightfall, boy! You´ll be gone by nightfall!" He didn´t know why he said it then, and always regretted it since, but he couldn´t stop himself.

The madness went off with his words, and soon, the other prisoners who were crazier than he began giving hoots and catcalls at the boy. Their voices rang through the air like Poe´s hell bells.

"Gone by nightfall!"

"Lucifer´s welcome!"

"Look at him! The new flesh always gets the better cells!"

And the laughter transformed the prisoners into squawking crows, and Sirius became nothing more than a foul jailbird.

The other guard turned around to survey the cells behind it. Instantly, the hall was silenced. Torchlight fell upon the hood and, for a moment, the Dementor´s face - if it could be called a face - was seen, lined in shadow. It was grinning.

A series of uncontrollable shudders went through Sirius and he wasn´t in the cave anymore. He was staring at the Dementor´s grotesque features and felt his insides turn. It was grinning and they were alone, and young Crouch began to scream. And his uproar joined the cries of the other prisoners, and the sound became greater, and greater, smashing through his eardrums and tearing through his mind and out his mouth, until all he could do was scream and scream and scream...

"So he´s still in Azkaban?"

Sirius turned his head. The hellish roar died within his ears but lingered, making them ring. He blinked slowly, trying to pull himself back into reality, and answered, "No." He blinked and repeated, "No, he´s not in there anymore. He died about a year after they brought him in."

And they grinned.

"He died?"

"He wasn´t the only one." Sirius´s head began to clear and he saw Harry standing in front of him with his brow furrowed and his hands in his pockets. Oh, that face, James made that face all the time when wrestling over difficult Arthimancy problems... Sirius focused intently upon Harry and pulled himself out of the mire.

"Most go mad in there, and plenty stop eating in the end. They lose the will to live. You could always tell when a death was coming, because the Dementors could sense it, they got excited."

And they grinned.

"The boy looked pretty sickly when he arrived, " Sirius continued briskly, hiding the darkness in his mind. "Crouch being an important Ministry member, he and his wife were allowed a deathbed visit. That was the last time I saw Barty Crouch, half-carrying his wife past my cell. She died herself, apparently, shortly afterward. Grief. Wasted away just like the boy. Crouch never came for his son´s body. The Dementors buried him outside the fortress; I watched them do it."

Losing his appetite with this talk, Sirius threw aside the bread he held and took a draught from the flask. The pumpkin juice was thick and rich with spices; Sirius let his taste buds wash away the rest of the bad memories.

"So Crouch lost it all, just when he thought he had it made," he continued, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "One moment, a hero, poised to become Ministry of Magic...next, his son dead, his wife dead, the family name dishonored, and, so I´ve heard since I escaped, a big drop in popularity." Sirius went on to explain how Crouch fell from grace in the eyes of the public. He watched Harry and his friends absorb this information. They were quiet for a long time.

Afterwards, the conversation came to Snape. Ron was positive that Snape had to be involved, and Sirius would have been glad to jump on the bandwagon with him. Unfortunately, Sirius´s mind protested against whatever his gut felt, and his mind said that Dumbledore trusted him, and if Dumbledore trusted him, then no matter how shady Snape´s past was, he was still a clean man.

Harry brought up an episode when the Durmstrang professor tried to speak with the Potions Master, but that only confused Sirius. So what if Karkaroff tried to show something on his arm to Snape? Might as well be a nasty mole he wanted to remove.

Another kink in the machinery was that incident with Moody and Crouch invading Snape´s office. Sirius tried to piece of all together: "I wouldn´t put it past Mad-Eye to have searched every single teacher´s office when he got to Hogwarts. He takes his Defense Against the Dark Arts seriously, Moody. I´m not sure he trusts anyone at all, and after the things he´s seen, it´s not surprising. I´ll say this for Moody, though, he never killed if he could help it. Always brought people in alive when possible. He was tough, but he never descended to the level of Death Eaters. Crouch, though... he´s a different matter... is he really ill? If he is, why did he make the effort to drag himself up to Snape´s office? And if he´s not... what´s he up to? What was he doing at the World Cup that was so important he didn´t turn up in the Top Box? What´s he been doing while he should have been judging the tournament?"

All the questions tumbled about in his head, bumping into each other and confusing Sirius´s train of thought. None of this musing aloud was really helping. After another fifteen minutes, the conversation dwindled to nothing substantial, and Sirius felt as lost as he did before the students came.

Sirius had a little acronym for situations like these: WWJD - What Would James Do? And frankly enough, he had no idea.

Finally, he gave in.

"What´s the time?"

"It´s half past three," said Hermione promptly.

He got up once more. "You´d better get back to school. Now listen..." he instructed, looking pointedly at Harry. "I don´t want you lot sneaking out of school to see me, all right? Just send notes to me here. I still want to hear about anything odd. But you´re not to go leaving Hogwarts without permission; it would be an ideal opportunity for someone to attack you."

"No one´s tried to attack me so far, except a dragon and a couple of grindylows," Harry joked feebly, but Sirius scowled at him.

"I don´t care... I´ll breathe freely again when this tournament´s over, and that´s not til June. And don´t forget, if you´re talking about me amongst yourselves, call me Snuffles, okay?"

He handed Harry the empty napkin and flask and went over to Buckbeak. "I have to talk with Dumbledore about this," he whispered in the hippogriff´s ear. Be back in awhile." Sirius didn´t want Harry and his friends knowing Sirius´s private conferences with the Headmaster; he wanted to keep his presence as secret as possible. If Harry knew Sirius visited Hogwarts, something might slip, even if it was accidental.

Turning back to the students, Sirius said, "I´ll walk to the edge of the village with you, see if I can scrounge another paper."

Changing back into his canine self, Sirius escorted them back to the stile. The children gave him one last pat on the head, wishing a silent farewell, then left. Sirius watched silently as the trio disappeared into the village.

Then, quite unexpectedly, a speck in the air caught his attention. It was flying towards him. It grew larger. An owl. The bird landed on the stile and watched Sirius with intent eyes as it balanced itself. The message had been tied loosely with a thick cord that was easy to grasp with his jaws, as if the sender knew that human hands wouldn´t touch it. Sirius removed the note and gave a nod of recognition to the Hogwarts owl. The bird took wing and disappeared.

Carrying the small message back toward the woods, Sirius hid behind a truck of a particularly gnarled oak and opened the note. Out fell a newspaper clipping, more recent than anything he had found. He picked it up and held it for a long, long time, unmoving. Then, crumpling it up in his hands, Sirius stuffed the wad in his robe pocket.

The note itself was very brief, but self-explanatory. Two words in long, flowing script marked the parchment.

_He´s back._

Merlin´s eyes, from the boiling cauldron into the fire! Sirius glanced at the note, and then stuffed it too in his pocket. He looked to the village, then back at the cave. He would have to leave Buckbeak longer than he thought.

A black dog raced out of the woods and towards the village as if being pursued by wild griffins. Up above from the mouth of the cave, Buckbeak watched with hooded eyes. The hippogriff knew that his friend wouldn´t move so fast unless something went very, very wrong.

Chapter 24

Steam thickened the air. It created a fog on the bathroom mirror, blurring the image. The reflection was of a bare back, with a single rope of black flipped carelessly across. Fine scars of surgical stitching marked the lower half along the spine, and there, the vertebrae jutted out a little larger than normal bones. That was because they weren´t.

Claire poured a heaping amount of shower gel into a mesh loofah and rubbed it vigorously between her hands until it foamed. Then, she soaped herself, the coarse material roughing her skin.

The bathroom was large, elegant, and conveniently designed. The tub she sat in had a built-in ledge to sit on; apparently, it was a little-used Jacuzzi which she now staked as her own. Handrails were installed along the wall and along the rim, while the old-fashioned plumbing made it possible to keep a pull-chain instead of a knob to turn the water spouts on and off. The main point of the matter was she was able to bathe herself, and she was thankful for it.

Claire didn´t want to go through the demeaning feeling that hired help brought. She didn´t want people supervising her. She didn't want strangers touching her. She didn´t want people handling her body like it was luggage.

Her body - what a mockery to call it that! And what is this body, this shell she was reduced to? What was Claire? A woman? A thing? An assortment of flesh molded into imperfection?

She hated looking at herself like this. Stretching out her hand, Claire jerked a hanging chain. Immediately above her head, the metal showerhead rumbled, then a burst of warm water erupted, falling with the fury of a summer thunderstorm. She lifted her head, eyes closed, feeling the pressure like a thousand blunt nails bouncing off her skin. It felt so wonderful.

Cascades of falling water filled her ears as the suds were washed away. The monotony of the pounding water was a catharsis to her. She sighed, contently. Warm wafts of air enveloped her and after several minutes, the constant pressure of the shower beating against her chest made it hard to breathe. Turning off the showerhead, she remained there in her seat for a few moments until the tingling sensation went away.

Then, with silent resignation, she took hold of the rubber-coated handrails on either side of the tub and pushed herself up. Effort poured into her movement: muscles tensed, head bowed, breath halted and came out in one steady exhale. She could feel her pectoral muscles working, as they should, along with the triceps and shoulder muscles. All that therapy in building up her upper body strength was put into good use. Claire was secretly grateful for her werewolf nature; a normal human in this condition wouldn´t manage such basic tasks on her own.

Once she got to the wide rim of the tub, she reached out for a fluffy towel. Wrapping it just beneath her arms, she stared at the shower chair. Several more towels draped the seat and arms; usually, she loaded herself onto it and had Fifi aid her in removing the towels after she was dry. After much difficulty, she clambered her way into her chair, grimacing.

_Snap, snap, snap_: the Knight brace was tucked just below her ribcage and extended all the way down to the top of her hips. It was thin, of metal and rubber and stiff plastic: two straps extended around her torso and four stiff, padded rods ran between them. Basic design, made to keep the spine straightened into an upright position at all times. It was not unlike having a schoolmistress giving a student the ruler to prevent slouching; both commanded the same rigid authority. Having endured it for over two months, she was now able to leave it off for short periods of time. Previously, she was forced to bathe with it on.

Exchanging the towel for a flannel robe on the rack, she put it on and tightened the sash. A while passed as she adjusted the clothing properly; she had to prop herself up by one arm as she tucked the bathrobe beneath her, first on one side, then the other. She could sense nothing but the barest of feeling there and that was only when there was immense pressure. Or pain. Claire gave a final check in the mirror to be sure she wasn´t exposed anywhere.

When she wheeled herself into her bedroom, her brother was waiting for her.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, putting a hand to her closed robe.

Bernard was pacing the room and didn't stop upon seeing her. "You will not believe what news I have!" he said as he passed her by.

"Why are you in my room?" repeated Claire. "Never come into my room without my permission! For God´s sake, Bernard, how many times-"

"You must sit down and let me tell you," he went on. "Never mind, you are sitting down, but listen, for you will be overjoyed with the news!"

The only news she had been hear of the last few days was Bernard's upcoming trip to Luxembourg: some new conference about using Muggle technology to tracking down the lycanthrope gene. Once it was found, the possibility of future cases of hereditary lycanthropy can be eliminated altogether. Claire didn't know why Bernard would be so interested; the rest of the clan - along with most ancient werewolf families - was horrified at this prospect. To terminate the wolf would be killing the very essence of their people. Bernard seemed to advocate the process. She couldn't understand why, especially since he held up his own wolf in such high esteem.

Claire crossed her arms, expecting the conversation to be about Luxembourg. "And it is...?"

"The Lycanthrope Biomedical Center is conducting an ongoing study on the transformation and how it exactly affects werewolves, as you know, since I´ve been telling you about it –"

Ah yes, the dinner conversations where she had drifted off to contemplate her own problems. It was always either the Transformation Project or that "mapping out the genome" thing which he ranted about so often. Bernard always brought his work home with him, much to Claire´s boredom.

"-- and the head of the project, Michael D´Aubigne, he was screening for candidates for his latest study on the changing bone structure during transformation. I informed him of your particular circumstances and he was very interested in you. We worked some minor details out and now you're in."

Claire didn't get it. "In what?"

"Dr. D´Aubigne´s study!" Bernard beamed. "For the next three months, his researchers will analyze your skeletal structure and how it changes during the progression of the lunar cycle. And during transformations, they'll record the structural changes and how your special circumstances affect it. Can't you see," he finished, "This will be a prime opportunity for the Center and for you to piece together how a werewolf's body metamorphoses. In doing so, a new understanding can be developed about how the wolf and the human skeletons interrelate."

"How...?" she managed to get out.

"You'll have to have permanent residence there during the study, of course, where they can run through the preliminary tests and get a clear analysis on your medical condition, then, they'll monitor your progress as the moon waxes and wanes and such. All expenses included here, Claire, with the medicine and the treatments and the X-rays, and that Wolfsbane horror the Ministry supplements you with before the full moon, well, that´s provided too and - and—" Having run out of words and breath, Bernard threw his arms up and asked, "So, isn't this fantastic?"

Claire was silent. Finally, she spoke. "Essentially," she said in a tempered tone that could cut through steel, "you arranged for me, without my knowing, to be sequestered from the outside world and be a lab rat for the next three months?"

Bernard's face fell but his tone rose. "Will you not even consider the option? My colleagues are thrilled at a chance to study the effects of the transformation- "

"So you just popped the proposal, 'Hey, my sister's disabled; she would make a perfect subject!'"

"This was not meant to insult you. If it were, I´d never put you in for study. This is a milestone of inquiry, Claire, that no one has ever established before – "

"Well, I'm sorry, but this is insulting beyond belief! Not an insult to your little scientists, but to my dignity!"

"Can't you see, they might be able to help you walk again!" he snapped, fists clenched. "If they figured out specifically what occurs in the bone structure during the transformation, their magic can devise new structural mechanisms that would be more suitable for your body! Isn't that what you wanted? Why pass up this chance?"

"If it was under my own discretion!" Claire retorted. "If I volunteered! Why would I be willing to let myself be poked and prodded and tested and monitored? I will not be your test subject!"

"This is not an option anymore, Claire!" The stirrings of fury hinted behind his glasses. "This is for your own good!"

"Who am I, your pup? Am I not able to choose what kind of life I live?"

"You can't _make_ proper decisions!" he roared. "That is why you are _here_!"

She sat, stunned, as if he had slapped her. The next word fell like an anvil. "_What?_"

Bernard's mouth hung open, in a way that would be almost comical in any other situation, and then shut it. "Well, I... wasn't... you..." he stumbled gruffly. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, and took them out again as tightened fists.

"This had gone far enough," he ended with a snarl. "I only had you in my best interests. Dr. D´Aubigne requests your appearance by tomorrow for preliminary testing. I will have Fifi pack some clothing, and I will have Eunice take you."

"I cannot walk, but I am not completely helpless. I will not be taken anywhere."

Their gazes clashed. Like little wizard children, she wanted to focus all her pain, all her misery, all her entrapped rage in a way that would manifest into an explosion or a shock. Yet even without the physical force, her eyes were enough. Again, like the time before in his study, she stared him down. Bernard turned away and ran a hand through his hair. Claire swore he had been growling at her, in a tone lower than human ears could reach.

"Our tempers are becoming completely out of hand," he said, reluctantly. "I should have told you sooner. I meant for it to be a... surprise..." A pause. "I'll call Michael./ But he made a point not to apologise. Instead, he said, "You know the Luxembourg conference is coming up. I will be gone for the next two weeks. Perhaps this would give you enough time to accept this."

Claire didn't reply. The glasses slipped and he gave her The Look in supremacy before hurrying out of the room, as if pressed with other matters. She shut the door behind him and locked it.

_"You can't make proper decisions! That is why you are here!"_ So that was the reason he offered his home to her! Not out of kindness, but out of authority! Claire suspected something of the like, but to hear it come out of his mouth -

"Hoo! Hoo!"

Banging sounds against the balcony doors brought her attention to the owl flapping outside. She wheeled herself over and took a hooked stick to unlock the doors. Once one was opened, the owl coasted in and perched on the end of her bed.

"Hoo!"

"What are you doing here?" she asked it mildly, undoing the message tied to the bird´s leg. Letters from other Safehouse owners and wolf packs still came every so often, so she wasn't surprised to receive it. She opened it, then stood rigid, unblinking. Her hands clutched the letter as if it was a lifeline, crumpling the paper.

There, in Ulysses´s cramped writing were two words: _He's back._

Chapter 25

Samuel Harper couldn't believe it. He simply couldn't believe it. Part of him wondered if the courts meant to give him this case, or if it had been confused with something else, like a stolen broomstick from the other circuits.

He decided that something must have gone horribly wrong.

Law was something Harper never pictured himself in. He was one of those average people who were never talented in anything, but never did terribly in anything either. That, for certain, is the worst position a person could be placed in. Potions were handled with ease, as well as Arthimancy. Divination was never his strong point, but Harper had always managed to fib enough to satisfy Professor Trelawney. When he witnessed Professor Kettleburn get most of his forearm ripped off by a young Manticore, he decided that Care for Magical Creatures wasn't his future profession. The other classes provided equal, if not lesser, captivation.

Thus, when his final years at Hogwarts dwindled down, the doomsday outlook towards the future overwhelmed him. He didn't know what to do with his life after school. Perhaps he could have been an alchemist, or a journalist at the _Daily Prophet_, or a window washer. Opportunities abounded for him, each as unappealing as the next. Yet it was upon his mother's suggestion that he work for the Ministry; it was a respectable, decent line of work, and considering the economy those days, quite secure as well. And so he went.

Law was just "coming back into fashion" in an occupational sense, after taking a blow when Bartemius Crouch suspended legal rights indefinitely during the darkest days of You-Know-Who. War tribunals were the rage, and rights were stripped off suspected Death Eaters faster than Hermes' morning jogs: no trials for them. A few lawmakers protested, but then again, those few lawmakers soon were looked at with suspicion. After that, though, when Crouch fell from the public's grace due to the scandal involving his son being a Death Eater, all wizards demanded a Bill of Rights, similar to the one the American wizards had, and soon one was passed. So, by the time Harper graduated, law was deemed once again the safe and easy bloodletting practice it always was.

If Harper had been exceptional rather than average, he would have gone to the Ministry of Magic headquarters in London to fight with the other ambitious young students for an apprenticeship. But the social politics that went on there unnerved him; the determined and willing toughed it out, but the average were trampled to death and eaten alive (if the two could happen simultaneously). People who went to London were hell-bent on being successful, and Harper didn't want to be successful. Thus, he made his way up north to Edinburgh for his work. He received a junior solicitor job within the first week.

Now, his first case in hand, Harper confirmed to himself that he had no idea where to begin. Only one option presented itself.

He stood outside of Mr. Thomson's door and knocked.

"Come in," came the gruff reply.

Harper did. He stepped in and stood near the doorway, as meek as he was six years ago as a fresh Hogwarts graduate.

The office was large and dim. Stale smoke filled the air. Despite building regulations, this barrister still smoked; people overlooked it because of his seniority. Harper tired not to breathe the odour in. The smell of smoke always made his palms itch for a cigarette, but he couldn't. Harper was still trying to go cold turkey.

On the far wall were various honours given to his master barrister for his long years of public service; one of the most prominent pictures was of him and Bartemius Crouch, who had been recently appointed as head of the department at the time it was taken. It was one of those rare pictures where Crouch was actually caught smiling. Below that picture was a statue of Lady Justice on a low shelf. In the smack center of the room was a desk, and at the desk sat what could be called a man.

The man looked up. Mr. Elric Thomson suffered from that degenerative professional disease, which left untreated, made people hunchbacked and gnome-like, shrewd and bitter.

He had been a public defence barrister for more than thirty years.

"So the boy comes crawling back," he commented aloud.

Crawling? He wasn't crawling! Oh, Harper shouldn't have expected a warmer reception, though. The old hatred shook up his nerve. He wasn't going to tolerate this; he won't even give Mr. Thomson a chance to humiliate him this time! Yeah, Harper should walk out the door, cool and confident. And he should slam the door in that bastard's face too-

"I think... I need your help..." he began.

"Help?" exclaimed Mr. Thomson. He plucked out a smoking stub from his mouth and squashed it against the ashtray. "The boy wants help now?"

Harper hunched down. He didn't want to be there, but he had no one else to turn to. Harper, in truth, was the joke of the entire Department. He lacked the tact in cross-examination and the brains to remember the Seventy-Eighth Ruling of the International Committee on Wizard-Muggle Relations. He couldn't argue or analyze or even object properly; the only thing Harper could do well was remember how each barrister employed by the Ministry liked his or her coffee. Oh, and he was a whiz at filing.

"But I thought you wanted to join the big leagues, boy," Mr. Thomson went on. "Remember? If you wanted to ask for help, then why turn to me? Isn't this what you wanted? To be a big, tough attorney handling all the big, tough jobs by yourself?"

And damn it, Harper did want to handle the case by himself! But how could he handle the case if he wasn't taught anything? Harper felt that worn anger against his master barrister rise again. Six years of his life - wasted under this dictator's knobby fist! He worked for nights, weekends, and vacations for this man and what did he get? None of the so-called "quality instruction" that he was promised. Actually, why was he even here in the first place? Why bother with the man who scorned him for so long?

But Mr. Thomson was his mentor, his master, his instructor. No one wanted to teach the department gopher anything. He had to tame this pride; he had to at least _ask_ for some advice...

Swallowing hard, he clamped those ambivalent feelings. "Because you're my master barrister," Harper said. "And it's your obligation-"

"It _was_ my obligation."

Harper stiffened. He had the urge to tackle the gnome to the ground, yet he also had the urge to run out the door. It was always like this with Mr. Thomson. He could easily be the worst person Harper ever had to deal with - no wait, except for Professor Snape--

"I hired you to become an attorney, boy. Not a half-grown mongrel who comes back to suck at his bitch's tit."

Scratch that. Mr. Thomson was worse.

Mr. Thomson leaned back his in his leather seat and propped his feet on the desk. "Yet remember what I told you after you failed the bar exam for the third time? That's it. Three strikes. Go find another line of work.´ You're not cut out for this. Really, you should have stuck around as my assistant. It pays better," he laughed.

Harper's hands began to shake. Oh, he heard this jibe before. Pay? What pay? Enough to be sure he didn't starve in the streets! Though considering how much he had earned so far (i.e. nothing), Harper wondered whether he made the right decision.

Immediately, the doubt was chased away. He had to be a barrister, if only because he didn't know what else he had to be. A panic fluttered through his chest at the thought of coming home to Chelmsford a failure, begging at his mother's doorstep to stay at home again. No, he wouldn't be able to live with that! Harper pushed that terrible thought away and focused back to the present. This was his case, and he was an equal now, a professional, like Mr. Thomson. No more flunky business for him!

"Listen," Harper started, mounting his courage, "I came here to get-"

Mr. Thomson cut him short. "I might as well have a look at it, though, since you obviously can't do anything on your own. Tell me," he drawled, lighting up another fag, "What case did the courts hand to you?"

Deflated, he replied, "It's about a werewolf, Mr. Thomson."

The master barrister kicked off. "A werewolf?" he said. "Certainly, you did not take the special training needed to handle creature cases!"

"He's a wizard, sir."

"A wizard!" He repeated, as if amazed at the concept. "A wizarding werewolf?"

Mocking laughter danced in the other man's eyes. Mr. Thomson knew about the case already. Possibly all of the other public barristers did! Oh geez, why was Harper the one stuck with the garbage cases no one else would take? Or did they just draw lots and decide to give it to the barrister who wasn't there? Perhaps they passed it along because it was ridiculously easy; Harper hoped this was so; he'd rather live on a pity case than tackle something truly difficult.

He handed the file over to the master barrister. Mr. Thomson leafed through the papers. "Yes, yes, yes," he muttered to himself with the cigarette between his teeth, then threw the file back. "It's all so simple, boy. Now think; I did train you to do that at least."

"Think?" Harper echoed.

"The courts wouldn't have given you a case you wouldn't be able to handle."

"But, the situation here is--"

"Look," coached his master barrister. "Tell me, boy, about that case I did down in Pools last year."

"You mean the one with the carnivorous plants?"

"Precisely."

"Well, the defendant faced a lawsuit when his neighbor was attacked and nearly got his leg chewed off..."

"And...?"

"And the prosecutor said it was his responsibility because the plant was a magical creature under his care."

"Get out."

"What?" Harper flailed, confused.

"You heard me boy. Out with you!"

"Wait -" Harper stopped himself. He was slow sometimes, but he eventually did catch on. "The werewolf was responsible for his own wolf! And since he failed to control it..."

"And from what document does this refer to?"

"The Werewolf Code of Conduct of 1601."

"Smart answer. Go on."

Harper rekindled some of his lost confidence. "He would have to face the punishment."

"And the Code states..."

"Is being drawn and quartered still legitimate nowadays?"

"The amendments..."

"Oh, beheading--" Harper stopped short. "Beheading?"

"That's it, boy!" Mr. Thomson broke out into a grin. "Now get the hell out!"

Perfect! Just perfect! "But- but- but I'll lose the case!"

"That's the whole point." Mr. Thomson crossed his arms. "Didn't you learn anything under my tutelage?"

He muttered bitterly, "That Lucky Strikes have a bolder flavor than Winfields?"

"What was that?"

"A great many things, Mr. Thomson," Harper covered hurriedly. "Still, sir, I don't understand why we have to put the werewolf to death-"

"Than find your way out of it! It's your case, boy!" Mr. Thomson said irritably. "Quiz: what was the first lesson I ever taught you?"

"Always keep your calling card at hand?"

"Other than that?"

"One man's fault is another man's liability?"

"No, no, no!" Thomson took out his wand and pointed to the statue over the desk. "What is this?"

"Lady Justice."

"Good. What is she wearing?"

"A blindfold."

"The scrolls say that means?"

"She does not see the differences in men. All are equal to the law."

"But _we_ know that means-?"

"She is blind, naïve and ignorant."

"What is she carrying?"

"Scales and a sword."

"The scrolls say they mean?"

"Scales weigh the crime to the punishment. The sword metes out punishment fairly."

"But-?"

"The scales weigh the gold we earn each day. And the sword reveals her misdirected destruction."

"Now doesn't that all cheer you up, boy?"

The liturgy over, Harper sighed. Once again, the feeling of defeat sunk in. Perhaps, somewhere, in the back of his mind, he had a vision of coming out of the courthouse triumphant, of having his client pumping his hands saying, "You saved my life!" and of going to the office and flicking off Mr. Thomson. But alas, those fancies were too quixotic for his reach.

The barrister's voice grated Harper's hopes into shreds. "My first lesson was not to go idealistic. There is no such thing as human justice. We are not judicial superheroes, defenders of mankind. We do not see the truth. No one can. We do not ask, What did my client do?´ and whether it was morally right or not. We ask, What can we _prove_?´ Barristers only twist situations toward the client's favor. We are here to make money."

Mr. Thomson glared at his former apprentice with a critical eye. "That's why this case is yours. Each and every case is not a guaranteed winner. You will lose many times, and you better get used to it. Losing helps wear away all that fluff and good morals. One of the many things I always despised about you, boy, is your weakness. You have to grow hard to survive here. More calculated. More vicious. Look around; would I have lasted in this job for this long if I actually _believed_ in what I claim to defend?"

The elder barrister turned back to his work. "The case should last a good three weeks. You're paid either way," he assured him, "and you get a day off to see your client's execution. It's not too bad. You get a catered meal afterwards, if you still retain your appetite."

Harper wanted to be sick. "But what if he doesn't have to die?" he said in a small voice.

"Come again?"

"What if he doesn't have to die?" he suggested. "I mean, I could always find a lesser sentence. You know, send him to that Magical Creatures Penitentiary."

"Well, it's your case; go figure it out," Mr. Thomson spat. "Get a slap on the back. Save a life. Feel the glory." And settling down with a document, he chuckled, "And let the bugger rot with the Dementors for the rest of his brief and miserable life."

Oh right. Which was better: Dementors or death? Now it was in Harper's hands to decide. The task disheartened him; Harper wanted to throw the case back to the courts. Oh great, no wonder he was stuck with it! None of the other barristers wanted another dead man - or worse - on his conscience.

The young man bit his lower lip until it hurt. Hold on, what was he talking about? By Medusa's head, he'd find a way out of this! He was new blood after all, and surely he certainly didn't develop any of the other jaded barristers´ philosophies! And yeah, he could ask for help from someone who knew more about magical creature law; maybe even a panel attorney from London! In fact, why did he even bother coming to his _former_ master barrister's office? Mr. Thomson was nothing but a backwater lawn ornament! Even more, why was he still standing here, getting insulted at? He didn't deserve such treatment! Raging Eumenides, Harper will plunge right into this case and show Mr. Thomson what an "assistant" can do!

"You might think you know how this case will turn out Mr. Thomson," he said lowly, raising an index finger, "But no one has a say about it until the case is over."

The old wizard looked up. "What did you say? I missed it."

"Oh nothing," Harper mumbled, slipping out the door, "Only thank you very much, sir, and have a nice day."

This was official. No sitting in the corner as Mr. Thomson waggled out a deal. No more taking notes that were never used, or watching silently as someone else did all the important work. This was his meeting, his deal, his work.

Harper handed the mug over to his colleague, who sat slumped in one of the padded leather chairs of the conference room. "Two sugars, three creams?"

"Yes, you always had a mind for that," Mr. Borden accepted his coffee and took out a flask. "A little kick to move these ol' bones." He poured a dollop and offered it to the defense barrister. "Would you like?"

"Gladly." Harper felt a certain privilege to as he took the flask, a kind of equal companionship that his former master barrister never showed him. He poured a bit into his own cup and sipped.

"We can get this done with pretty soon," said the prosecutor. Taking his knife and fork, he set to work on the huge piece of haggis and mashed turnips heaped on his plate. Harper himself only had a thin sandwich he had brought from his tenement; he never bought from the cafeteria; it saved money. He nibbled on the crust as he watched the prosecutor eat.

Everything about Hogarth Borden sagged, from the drooping stomach to the limp folds of his jacket to the bent tongues of his leather shoes. He had lost the war with gravity long ago, and his cheeks, swollen and pasty, practically dripped from his face. His squat nose, stuck there as if by an artist's whim, had huge black nostrils; Harper could see the nose hairs jutting out like bristles.

Harper watched those nostrils sniff at the floating steam coming from the mug, making the entire nose quiver. "I know."

"I've always liked you, Samuel. You know that." Mr. Borden slurped his coffee. "You're a good lad, despite what that arse Elric says about you." Taking another bite from his meal, he continued between chews, "You know he only takes advantage of you because you never have the git to stand up for yourself."

Harper felt the blood rush to his cheeks. Having someone like him wasn't embarrassing, but having someone point out his timidity was. He opened his mouth to defend himself - or at least, thought of opening his mouth to defend himself - when Mr. Borden went on.

"So, I'm going to make it a hell of a lot easier than him." A warm, easy grin spread across his flabby face. "Eighteen years."

"Eighteen?"

"After the hearing about his legal status. If he's a being, then I'll go with eighteen years, instead of the usual twenty-five."

"And if he's not?"

"Well, then, there is no option of prison time, is there?"

Silence. Mr. Hogarth Borden's gargantuan weight shifted. His chair moaned as if in pain. His black, moist eyes squinted up at him through folds of skin.

"Losing face the first time in court is not the way to jumpstart your career. I'm trying to build a decent rep for you here." Concern came over his face. "We all want you to do well, Samuel. But in order to do so, you have to play the game. I'm sure Elric's told you that."

"Yes, he did," he replied flatly. He cradled the mug in his hands. "Many times."

"I don't want to crush you or anything!" The rolls of fat jiggled as he laughed; the mental image of the prosecutor crushing him, literally, by sitting on him with that giant rump, made Harper gag.

It wasn't that Harper didn't like Mr. Borden. He did. Everyone in the Department did too, even the other defence barristers. All the judges at Nemesis Courthouse were on a first-name basis with him. For despite its title, the courthouse was not a stiff-lipped competitors´ ring, where prosecution and defence battled rage-inducing wits in front of stone-fisted magistrates and judges. The Courthouse was a workplace, and everyone there was a co-worker, even if he or she was on "the other side."

Lunches between opposing attorneys were everyday, refreshing repartees where the case was bargained like a pair of old ladies fussing over prices at a flea market. There was no sense of histrionics or edginess; how can there be, if they worked together seven days a week? Law was a game, and if every law practitioner played by the rules, then every law practitioner wins.

So of course Mr. Borden would only expect a neat compromise from his young - if somewhat incompetent, but nevertheless practical-minded - fellow associate.

"I-I won´t be crushed."

Mr. Borden blinked. "You're young, and you probably want to show some bravado in your first case..."

"But mean it." Harper licked his dry lips and said, firmly, "Mr. Lupin won't be accepting any plea bargains yet, Mr. Borden."

"You haven't even talked with your client, have you?"

Harper didn't answer.

Shaking his head, the prosecutor said in a patronizing tone, "You cannot govern your client's fate without his permission, Samuel. You know that." Clearing his throat, he pointed out, "You've been here long enough to know that about 85 of most cases never reach the court, never see a judge. You know of the charges I'll press. You know that most likely, your client wouldn't want to go through the media circus that'll come if there is a trial. Why bring the matter up then?"

Harper took a bite out of his sandwich, chewed slowly, and then swallowed.

"I don´t want justice to be that way," he replied softly. There. He said it. Now Mr. Borden can mock him, just like Mr. Thomson did.

Instead, a blank mask placed itself over the prosecutor's face. His face was constant cheer and goodwill; to see nothing on his face now signaled that some negative emotion was brewing in Mr. Borden's face, rising up thick and black like oil from a well.

"Lying won't help," Mr. Borden shot brutally. Tears sprang at the corner of Harper's eyes at this accusation. Taunting he could deal with, but to condemn him like that--

"I'm not lying!" Harper snapped, blinking hard.

"You think this is a glory case, Samuel?"

"Glory case?"

"The big one. The controversial trial of modern history. The landmark case that dictates the line between beast and being."

"Well, it could be, I mean, no--"

"You think you could earn a big rep by representing a wizard werewolf?"

"I never thought that!" Harper said, with the sting of guilt in his voice. Oh, he did have his daydreams, but they were only innocent fancies...

"Well, you're right. It is, and you could." Mr. Borden folded his arms and made a grunting sound in annoyance. "But during your meeting with Mr. Lupin today, I want you to consider this: whatever you do, you're dragging him in with you. Now I don't give a damn about wolves myself, but since he's your client, you might be more considerate. Throw him the plea, and let him think it over. He doesn't have to take anything until his status is definite." Then, he relaxed his imposing stance and stuffed a hunk of dripping haggis into his mouth. He watched Harper as he chewed; a line of brown juice worked itself down his multiple chins.

Harper stared down at his hands. A line of responses flowed through his head, but he couldn't grasp on any response long enough for him to use. Fear and puzzlement overwhelmed him. Did he say something wrong? Did Mr. Borden hate him now? What was wrong with what he said? Isn't it a good thing to believe in justice?

But what if Borden was right? Was he in it for the glory? Any venomous response negating that did not enter his mind immediately. Then, maybe he was in it for the fame, and maybe Harper never realized it until Mr. Borden pointed it out! Oh, now that's just even worse! Samuel Harper, what is he now, a heartless political climber? No, he wasn't! Yet what if he was? Well, it wasn't fair for the prosecutor to accuse him like that! But maybe it was fair; maybe it was Harper's greedy, ambitious subconscious thought pattern that drove him to do this...

_Damn you subconscious thought patterns! _Harper bemoaned.

When Mr. Borden spoke again, it was with that warm, friendly voice Harper was familiar with. "I used to be buddies with the executioner for the Disposal for Dangerous Creatures, before Macnair replaced him," he said conversationally. "He used to do about five, six executions a month. Mostly young dragons, you know, and hippogriffs. He did a few wolves too, when they were punished as beasts. It was terrible when he did the wolves, because they cried. All of them, males and females. And there was nothing he could do about it. He had to kill them after all. It was his job. But he learned something from this, and gave me a piece of advice that I never forgot."

Raising his head, Harper gave the expected reply. "And what was that?"

"If you have to give them death, make sure to have a sharp ax and make a swift exit." Mr. Borden mopped the last bit of gravy from his plate with a wad of bread. "Public spectacles are most unwanted, especially in this day and age."

The wind ripped through the streets of Edinburgh. A cold snap had blown in this past week, bringing with it the howls and stings of a dying winter. Standing outside after lunch, under the stone awnings of the Ministry building, Harper fumbled with the cellophane wrapping of a pack of Lucky Strikes. The wind screeched in his ears as he shook a fresh cigarette out with trembling fingers and lit it up with his wand. Pressing the fag to his lips, Harper inhaled and felt the warm smoke enter his numb nostrils and sink into his frozen lungs.

Damn it, what was wrong with the world? No smoking in office buildings, no smoking in restaurants, and now even some of the pubs were considering going fag-free. This, Harper thought, was discrimination. The whole world was prejudiced against smokers. And there, standing in the freezing, Harper felt like the most persecuted minority in Scotland.

But the cold gave his thoughts more courage. He was doing the right thing, sticking with this case.

Walking past the Head Prosecutor's Office earlier that day with the file in hand, Harper had hesitated, knowing that if he stepped inside, he could pass up the case for someone else to find. But Harper didn't. And out in the cold, with no one else to admonish him or pressure him, Harper knew that why this case would be his.

He read the case file. He knew the facts.

Mr. Lupin had bitten the girl in October and immediately fled the scene with her. For almost six weeks, they hid together in the London Safehouse, away from prying eyes. Then, upon being caught at the Triwizard Tournament, he escaped. About a month later, she was found with a close-range gunshot wound to the chest in a beach hovel at Brighton. Lupin was gone.

Mary Grisham, the girl he had shot, was cured from all signs of lycanthropy. Incidental magic, some experts said. A miracle, other people had said. And wizards don´t usually believe in miracles.

But why did he shoot her? Was she too much of a hassle? Did Lupin want to murder her?

Harper knew the charges Mr. Borden would press against Mr. Lupin.

But if Mr. Lupin wanted to dispose of her, why didn't he before? Why did he care for her for so long? Why did he want to protect them both, instead of just himself? Then, after so long a time, why did he choose that time to shoot her?

Reading between the lines made Harper find his definite answer; the young man knew his Defence Against the Dark Arts a little better than his law. A werewolf and his pup had their souls linked. Whatever injury the maker inflicted upon his pup, he would have faced the same harm.

Knowing this - Mr. Lupin was a DADA teacher only the year before - why would he do such a thing? He could have easily abandoned the girl to the Werewolf Capture Unit if she was dragging him down.

For a man who could never pin his thoughts down for more than a minute, Harper felt sure of one thing: Mr. Lupin shot the girl to cure her. He undid his own crime. And in doing so, Mr. Lupin practically performed a miracle. If the date was seven hundred years beforehand, Mr. Lupin would have been hailed a saint, even by wizards.

So why should he be punished for a crime that he corrected? That didn't make sense. It was like chopping off the hand of a thief who returned the stolen goods.

The thought stirred up a small bit of hope that Harper had kept locked up for the past six years. It comforted him to know that somehow, there was some sort of good in this world. He wanted to believe in miracles.

Maybe that's why Harper liked him. Mr. Remus Lupin had the honour to care for a child he had wronged, the will to fight for their existence, and the courage to risk his life to save hers. Mr. Lupin was probably the most decent being Harper knew in this city.

"I want to be decent," Harper whispered to himself. The cigarette dropped from his fingers and died on the frozen asphalt.

The hearing was in three days.

End of Part 7.


	8. Beast vs Being

**Summary:** Lupin meets his barrister for the second time, and his trial goes underway, though not as smoothly or as favourably as he would have liked...  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Excerpt from Robert Burn's poem "A Man's a Man for That" is used in Chapter 28.  
**Author notes:** Thank you as always to my betas, Don H. and Liz, and also to Pallas Athena for her input.

Revised: May 2005

WOLF BY EARS

Part Eight: Beast vs. Being

By D.M.P.

We now ask ourselves: which of these creatures is a "being" - that is to say, a creature worthy of legal rights and a voice in the governance of the magical world - and which is a "beast"?

- Newt Scamander, _Fantastic Beasts & Where to Find Them_

Chapter 26

Bernard stood by the door to Claire's room. He was standing outside the door because it was locked, and it was locked because his sister hadn't _un_locked it since yesterday afternoon.

"I'm leaving," he announced.

The door remained shut.

He crossed his arms. "I know you're in there."

Sighing, he drew back and threw his hands up. "Fine," he snapped. "If you are going to continue with your immature attitude, then so be it!"

Of course he didn't expect an answer. Claire was absolutely intractable when angered, and Bernard hadn't the patience to deal with his sister's constant hissy fits and bouts of PMS.

Only siblings can conceive the most realistic or the most jaded portraits of one another, and Bernard considered Claire to be an irate bitch - in both senses of the word. She didn't understand the responsibilities _he_ had to take, the troubles _he_ had to go through, the unbearable ingratitude _he_ had spat in his face every single day. In Bernard's eyes, he saved her from the cruel, miserable fate of staying at the Bisclavret castle, that backward pile of stones where the crones still thought they were kings. She did not even seem to acknowledge that precious fact.

Bernard left the closed door, took three steps down the hall, and quickly returned. "I, for one, do not want to leave on a sour note," he restarted loudly. "And I expect us to act like adults." Still receiving nothing, he leaned his forearm against the door and put his head against it. "This is getting frustrating," he muttered. "Why do _you_ always have to start this?"

Claire was _his responsibility_; why couldn't she understand that? He was her brother, he was her leader, and, according to Great-Uncle Léopold, he was her god. Louis XIV proclaimed it with, "_L'état, c'est moi_," Chinese emperors called it the "Mandate of Heaven," and the ancient werewolf clans referred to it as the "Divinity of the Blood." "It" was the supremacy of the established ruler by claiming his will stemmed from a higher power.

Bernard, however, was too busy dealing with mundane, earthly things to concern himself with his relation to the celestial forces. The divine blood was another outdated concept that Bernard shrugged off, but the duty to his clan was a reluctant burden he carried. As anyone would admit, no matter how much he avoided his problems, the clan depended on his guidance. Some called it heavenly wisdom; Bernard thought of it as "leadership skills." No one in his clan would admit to having leadership skills and that was the problem! Handling clan affairs was like sending a crew of disgruntled office workers to one of those "group morale and teamwork" retreats with Bernard stuck being the director: everyone despised each other and looked to him for help, all the while despising him too. It wasn't that he didn't have leadership skills; it was just that he didn't want them. And maybe the skills he had needed serious tweaking – that he'd only admit to himself.

Yet, as his older relations kept reminding him, Bernard couldn't shy away from clan matters forever. After all, he was his father's son. They even shared the same name.

But his clueless sister was rebelling against all the things she should be grateful for! Oh, he would admit that he did love her - and he assumed that deep down inside, Claire did too; after all, they were _family_ - but for once she had to understand that there was an order in life, and that she should listen to him.

Or at least say, "_Merci_," once in awhile.

"You are acting like a spoiled pup! I have had it up to _here_," he raised his hand over his head, despite the fact Claire obviously wouldn't be able to see the gesture, "with your selfish behaviour!" Finally, he couldn't take her silence any longer. "This is it! I am _leaving_!"

The door opened.

Claire sat there with a blank face. "I'm leaving too," she declared.

This took him back a few thought paces. "Where?" he demanded, keeping his eyes squarely on her face, like he always did.

"I'm going to visit Caleb back at the castle when you're gone. He's sending a man over later to pick me up."

Hiding behind their little brother, was she? Bernard pressed his lips together and affirmed, "I'm sure you'll want to discuss Dr. D´Aubigne´s program with him."

"Why should I?" Claire stared at him. "I only want to relax and visit his family. I am an aunt," she said stiffly. "I should see my nephews more often."

"Fine," he grumbled, turning away.

"And I do not want you to contact us while you're in Luxembourg."

He stopped mid-step.

"I do not want you to use Caleb as your little spy," she explained.

"Who are you to accuse me of spying?"

"I know you well enough," she retorted. "So, upon your honour, promise me that you won't call him while I'm there and that you won't speak of this to him afterwards."

"And why is that?" Bernard demanded. "Don't I have the right as your brother to know what is going on with my sister's life?"

"A test," his sister replied firmly. "To see if you can keep to yourself for once."

Keep to himself for once! What did she mean by that? Was she trying to hide something from him?

His expression said it all. Claire replied in low tones, "You ignored me for years, and now I can never get away from you. Why is that?" Then, she said it: the thought which he knew had been lurking in her mind all day. "If I could stand, would things be different?"

He didn't answer.

"You've been fostering a guilty conscience, haven't you?" she fired at him, almost accusingly.

"I will be late for my flight; these matters should not be brought up now..."

"It is not your fault. You had nothing to do with my condition."

Liar! He had _everything_ to do with her condition. As her older brother, he should have protected her! If he had only been more competent, she would have been back in France before that full moon. He could have prevented--

Bernard blocked out the stabs of regret. He bowed his head, the feeling making him fidget. "We... we will talk about this later."

"We will talk about this _now._ Look at me," Claire said. "Look at me, Bernard."

Why was she attempting to order him about? Truth was, she hurt him. When he wasn't frustrated with her, Bernard was hurt by her. It hurt him to touch her, or talk to her, even to see her.

But that was why he had to live with her. Claire was his punishment; she was his failure in leadership.

And he would do anything to correct it.

Quickly, he snapped his head up and glared at her.

"This is my problem," she stated. "You could have not prevented it. No one could except myself. This is my mistake, Bernard. _Mine_, not yours."

Her words should have comforted him, but they did the exact opposite. "Nonsense!" he said, affronted. "You didn't know any better."

He saw her twitch at that line, but somehow, she didn't lash out like last time.

"Your words cannot exempt me from my duties. Maybe I should cancel this trip," he suggested. "You are in no state to be left alone."

Claire visibly struggled with her composure; she hesitated, then said, "You've been talking about nothing other than this conference for weeks. Don't let me hold you back." Her voice softened. "Maybe things have been too intense the past couple of months since I'd been here. Perhaps it would be better for both of us if we do not think about each other for the next fortnight. When you get back, I'll be here. We'll start with a clean slate. How about that?"

Relieved that all the tension seemed to fade, he gave a small smile, which Claire returned. "That... that sounds like a fair plan," he replied.

"Is it a deal? You won't speak to Caleb about my visit?"

"You life is your own," he said, stepping back.

"Then I will give Dr. D'Aubigne a little more thought." Claire took his hand and gave a clumsy grip, a sort of half-attempted farewell handshake. "_Bon voyage, mon frère._"

Trapped. He was trapped and couldn't move. The room shifted like when oil and water are mixed: shadows twisted and bent into a series of blobs and shapes. Nothing was stable, but fluid.

Except him in the darkness. Lupin felt unforgiving steel clamped over his forearms and ankles; he was fastened tight to the defendant's chair. Towering above was the podium. A hunkering figure stood the judge, wearing a hood over his black robes. "Guilty," he boomed.

Guilty? How could he be guilty? There wasn't even a trial yet! Where was his defence? Did he even have a defence?

Lupin looked this way and that, feeling that his motions were bogged down by invisible weights.

"Isn't this what you wanted?" the judge boomed. He removed the hood and Lupin saw the face of Bartemius Crouch, grinning. "All hail the man with a conscience!" he laughed. "This is human justice for God-fearing men!"

The Dementor appeared as if it had risen from the stone floor. Its skeleton hand cradled the back of his neck. He should be fighting this, he should be rebelling, he should be screaming. But he wasn't, and the Dementor let the hood fall back. The monstrosity was moving in. The panic rose.

"Help me," he whispered hoarsely to the face of an abomination. "Oh, God, help me..."

Crouch laughed uproariously behind them. His laughter echoed and expanded and twisted into the hollow sound of dry bones on stone. Or like the hidden poisonous calling of a rattlesnake's tail.

Dry, mummified lips pressed against his. The Dementor's arms tightened around him. His jaw went slack as the Dementor inhaled...

"HELP ME!"

Lupin opened his eyes as the guards dragged off another accused wizard. "HELP ME!" the wizard wailed. "I didn't do anything!"

As the man passed by, he rushed out from the guards' hold in a fit of frantic terror and collapsed in a heap by Lupin's cell. He screamed, "Don't let them send me there! Dear God, don't let the Dementors get me!"

Lupin wished he could shut off his ears from all this. He stared with blank neutrality into the frightened man's eyes. "Don't let them, don't let them, don't let them," the man begged, as if Lupin had the power to release him, before the guards pulled him back.

The man let another wail of despair tear from his mouth. The guards gathered the wizard up from the floor and took him away. Lupin turned over in his cot until he faced the wall of his cell. The man's desperate shouts resonated throughout the jail block.

It was surprising how many of the accused screamed like this. The sheer terror brought on by the thought of going to Azkaban drove the weak-willed into hysterics.

Even the accused was held in Azkaban as they waited for their trials to be heard in court. Lupin remembered Rubeus Hagrid, the Care for Magical Creatures Professor. They had a conversation once, last year, where they were discussing Buckbeak's trial. The subject came to imprisonment and Hagrid mentioned in passing, "Well, I´m glad tha´ Bucky isn´t a bein´. At least he kin stay here at Hogwarts instead of bein´ sent to Azkaban til his hearin´ comes."

Lupin knew that Hagrid went to Azkaban during Harry´s second year. The gamekeeper didn´t mention it, but for a moment, Lupin saw a shadow pass over his eyes. Then, Hagrid shook his head and repeated softly, "Yea, I´m glad tha´ Bucky isn´t a bein´."

That same rule applied to Lupin. Since it was undetermined whether he would be considered a being under wizard law, he was kept at the Edinburgh Ministry jail. He couldn´t even be sent to the Kennel (officially known as the Magical Sentient Creatures Penitentiary) until they determined his legal status.

For this, Lupin was privately grateful. Despite all his good intentions and his clear conscience, Lupin knew he wouldn't be able to survive two nights on that cursed island. Even Sirius barely salvaged his sanity by being an Animagus; Lupin had nothing. He knew that eventually, he would go to Azkaban, but he thanked goodness it wasn't then.

A week had passed since the arrest, but it seemed only yesterday since Lupin stood in the Department for Magical Law Enforcement and turned himself in. Everything had whipped by in a devil's whirlwind, moving more quickly than Lupin could comprehend. He would have probably understood more, if he were fully conscious at the time.

The Registry deemed Lupin "unstable" for management; officers keep him dutifully drugged throughout his court visit.

His initial appearance in court was a blur before his eyes; as of now, he couldn´t recall the magistrate or even the courtroom he stood in. He remembered voices: some shouted, some sneered, some murmured, and some mused in questioning tones. The magistrate´s voice came into his ears like and echo and left just as quickly. Words like "malice," "intent," "_mens rea,_" and "indictment" reached his ears. On behalf of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, the Ministry had filed charges against him with enough evidence to have his case reviewed in front of the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures.

Nothing could be decided as yet. He couldn´t even make his plea until his legal status was determined.

But, as he lay on the cot, Crouch´s laughter returned to his ears. _"This is human justice for God-fearing men!"_

Lupin checked his watch. A conference about his case was scheduled for five o´ clock. Since Lupin was bereft of any gold to his name, the courts appointed a barrister for him. Depending on how his legal status is decided, this barrister may only be a temporary one. Beasts usually don´t have representation.

His barrister was now running fifteen minutes late.

A nondescript guard approached his cell. "Hey, you´re out." Waving his wand, the latch to the cell door opened and Lupin got up. Another motion of the guard´s hand and a set of shackles appeared floating in mid-air. He took those and locked up Lupin´s wrists and feet, then latched a chain between the two shackles. Thus bound, Lupin was led out of the cell and through the cellblock.

Coming to a prisoner conference room on one of the upper floors, the guard opened the door and let Lupin walk past him. The room consisted of painted cinderblocks and dull lighting, with a scarred table in the middle and a couple of chairs. Another guard stood beside the door, arms crossed. His face wore a granite mask.

"One hour," his escort reminded Lupin´s defence and shut the door. Lupin stood in the doorway, stunned as his barrister greeted him.

"Hello," Samuel Harper said. "Sorry I'm late, I had some business to attend to."

Lupin raised his eyes heavenwards. Someone must be laughing up there.

Harper held out his hand to him from across the table. Lupin accepted it with a feeling of repetition and he found that the barrister's hands were freezing. Lupin noticed that Harper´s nose and ears were still red, as if he had just come back in from the cold.

They stood awkwardly for a few moments. Then, Harper pulled out a chair for Lupin and plunked himself across from him.

"I read your, um, your case file last week," he said, "And I was just conferring with the prosecution about the best course to take." He opened up his briefcase and took out the file, which he flipped open and lay flat on the table. Lupin noticed the slight rolling of the "R's" when he spoke; the Scottish tongue was slowly rubbing off on the Englishman.

Harper cracked a nervous half-grin. "We could... we could write up an affidavit...It's a start anyway." Drawing out a scroll, he took out a piece of parchment and laid it flat on the table.

"And on this affidavit, I write out my story?"

"Naturally. Well, at least everything you say. You don't have to second-guess yourself on anything. I mean, do you want to go over your story first? Wait, maybe we should go over what you want to put down..."

Seeing Harper fret, Lupin put a hand on the paper and said calmly, "I know my story well enough. Would you like to hear?"

"Most certainly. Sure, why not?" Harper shuffled through his briefcase and got out a Quick Quotes Quill. Licking the tip, he then balanced the point at the top of the paper.

Lupin cleared his throat. "I've never properly sorted anything out," he admitted. Other than with Sirius, he had never told anything about the night he bit Mary.

"Perfectly fine. The quill edits as it writes, and we'll give it a run down before you sign it." Harper said, gaining some assurance. Lupin had a feeling that Harper was used to writing up affidavits and stuck with familiar territory. "I'll ask you the questions, and the quill will write up the responses. Sound fair?"

"The fairest thing I've heard all day."

"All right then. State your name, age, birthplace and occupation for the record."

"My name is Remus Jacob Lupin. I'm 36 years old, born outside of Hogsmeade, and my last occupation was the Defence for the Dark Arts teaching position at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"Where were you on October 17th of last year?"

"I was in the town of Havenshire."

"What were you doing there?"

"I travel from town to town on occasion, and wanted to rest for a short time in the village."

"Why were you travelling?"

"Why?" Lupin paused in thought. "When one gets accustomed to being homeless, he has to find something to do with his time."

"You're homeless?" said Harper, surprised.

"No, I actually have a nice flat over by Southampton." Lupin gave a rueful smile, which relaxed both of them. "I mean, yes, I haven't owned property for some years now, since I had to sell my last flat ten years ago."

"But where did you live?"

"Around. The finest education is a journeyman's one." Lupin shrugged it off.

"How did you survive?"

"Surprisingly well," Lupin supplied. "I established a circuit of homeless shelters that I travelled to and fro. There was a system I used while rooting out jobs - Muggle or magical - where the towns I searched in had at least some form of refuge for the unfortunate. When I couldn't find any work, I would branch off from my normal routine and meander down the rustic train lines, looking for new opportunities."

"So you could never hold up a job long enough?"

"Nothing magical at least. I was a cab driver for half a year in London," Lupin answered wistfully. "And I tutored Professor Albus Dumbledore's great-nephews for a year or so."

"Really? Was that how you got the teaching job at Hogwarts?"

"A bit. I wandered for a couple more years before Prof. Dumbledore could track me down for the DADA spot. I wasn't sure why he wanted me for it, since I was fired from the tutoring position."

"Why were you fired?"

"Because of my condition. When the parents found out, I was fired. I didn't want Dumbledore telling them... Being a werewolf is not something I deny, but rather something I like to keep to myself..." Lupin cleared his throat.

"What d'you mean by that exactly?"

"Even if a person knows beforehand, even if they don't realise it, many... presumptions are made." Lupin explained. "I would rather inform a person when I feel that they are ready to handle it, and judge me then."

Moving on quickly, he said, "So I was greatly surprised that Prof. Dumbledore offered me the job when he did, considering how his relations acted towards me."

"I see." Both Harper and Lupin watched as the Quick Quotes Quill took that down. "So, you were in Havenshire. Then what happened?"

"I first I slept at their church until about... five o´clock. Then I left to get some provisions. The general store was closed, so I went to the tavern for food. Instead of getting food, however, I found myself drinking."

"Do you drink often, Mr. Lupin?"

"No. Only on the full moons, because I take alcohol with Phenobarbital to induce sleep. Drinking that night was the stupidest of mistakes; I regret it ever since." Deciding to toy with the barrister a bit, he said seriously, "I'm sure you don't drink much."

"No, never," Harper agreed vehemently, then: "Well, I do... during special occasions... I'm a social drinker." A pause. "Who happens to be very social."

"Certainly, Mr. Harper." Inside he was laughing.

Going on with his story, Lupin said, "I drank too much. I think I was under a depressed spell at the time - I remember that my thoughts weren't the brightest during that period. I had gotten fired from Hogwarts, and I had tried all summer to attain another line of work and failed. Everything was turning black for me, and the feeling of sadness only grew with the fact that everything was going relatively well beforehand."

Not to mention the fact that Peter was out there, working for Voldemort, and that his friend Sirius disappeared with his hippogriff for parts unknown. Lupin, essentially, had lost contact with everyone over the summer. He didn´t write to Dumbledore out of shame for betraying his trust all year. He didn´t send owls to Harry out of insecurity about whether he wanted to go beyond the formal teacher/student relationship they shared. Looking back, Lupin could see how everything had piled up, one after another, until he found himself thinking into ruts of loneliness and depression.

"I blamed my condition more so then than I had for a long time. So I got myself properly smashed in a way that only miserable people can."

Lupin saw that Harper was drawn in completely by his tale. Feeling somewhat self-conscious at such attention, he ploughed on.

"I stepped out of the bar, thinking I could go back to the church and sleep on the pews. I thought I could handle myself; never did I realize how drunk I was. Then, I saw the full moon; because of my depression, I...I didn´t note the date. I remember falling into an alleyway... the transformation... then..."

Golden curls and questioning blue eyes. A little form, almost doll-like, approached him. Crouching down, reaching her small fingers to stroke his fur...

_"Doggie, are you okay?"_

Deep within him, Lupin could feel the wolf stirring, dark and foul beneath his skin. His eyes closed, trying to fight back the memory. The hunger and the pain and the urge to clamp down upon soft, human flesh--

"Mr. Lupin, are you okay?"

He opened his eyes and saw Harper half-out of his chair, a hand hesitantly reaching for his arm. Lupin was surprised at Harper´s reaction; the barrister must have thought the same, for he sat back down quickly. "You looked faint," he explained weakly. "Like you were going to pass out."

Lupin cleared his throat. "I'm all right. Thank you."

"I should have got some water for you." Harper turned to the guard and began, "Um, could- could we have some water-?"

"Don't bother." He waved a dismissive hand. "She came to my wolf while it was passed out," Lupin finished. "He woke up and attacked her out of hunger."

"But you never had the intention for your wolf to hunt that night?"

"Absolutely not. The date completely slipped my mind."

Harper nodded as if in agreement.

Lupin's talk progressed into the next half hour. He explained his time with Mary - every single detail - from finding her following him in Cambridge three days later, to living at the Safehouse with Claire, to all the pleasantries they shared together.

The only exemptions he made dealt with any incidents regarding Sirius. For instance, instead of naming him as part of his motive for going to the Triwizard Tournament, he listed aiding Harry as his primary goal. The weeks spent with Sirius and Mary in Brighton was significantly shortened as well; Lupin didn´t want any harm to come to Sirius that would stem from mentioning him in his affidavit.

Somehow, telling Harper about his friends made their memories clearer and happier to him. Before, those memories were gloomy recollections of things forever lost; now each shone like a private gem. Mary laughing as she splattered green paint all over their robes. Claire sitting next to him, her hand guiding his as they read some legal jargon out loud in her office. Sirius standing on the edge of Mary's bed, making faces as he told her bedtime stories.

The young barrister paid attention through it all, right down to the final moments, when Lupin spoke of taking Mary to the hovel on the Brighton beachside and shooting that silver bullet through her heart.

"It was the most painful moment in my life," he whispered. "I felt that a part of myself was extinguished at the moment." His eyes focused on a barren corner of the room.

The room was silent. Harper reached over and laid out another sheet of parchment for the quill to write on. Already, twelve pages were taken up in tiny script.

"What happened after?"

"I wandered. I took a janitorial job for a while." He paused. Would it be the correct to tell Harper about his other self? The decision was entirely up to him; he could either tell Harper about Ridley, or drop it entirely.

_No_, Lupin decided privately to himself. Ridley wasn't him. He was another person, a person whom Lupin didn´t want to admit was part of him - and could very well still exist somewhere. But no, he didn´t want to talk about Ridley. Ridley was dead.

Thus, Lupin moved on.

"Still, I wanted to know that Mary would be safe. She had been my concern for so long that without her, I felt... lost." Discomfort about revealing himself so openly quieted his voice. Lupin didn´t speak for some minutes.

Harper scratched the back of his head nervously and tried getting the conversation started again.

"So...um... Why did you turn yourself in, Mr. Lupin?"

More than anything else, Lupin wanted to talk about the Ashwinders. Though his visions were almost gone by now, the effect they had upon him never left. He was eager to get this truth out of it; it burst at the walls of his brain with heart-pounding anticipation. For some reason, Lupin wished the stokers were there to listen to him; they would understand him so much better than Harper would.

He tried the same act he pulled on the psychiatrist at St. Mungo´s. "Do you believe in miracles?"

"Yes," Harper answered immediately.

Lupin gave him a look of amazement. "That´s the fastest answer I´ve gotten from you yet, Mr. Harper."

The barrister´s face flushed. "Well, that´s not a bad thing, is it?" He hesitated, before adding, "I was thinking the exact same thing just before our meeting. Miracles. Heh. What a coincidence." Then, he prompted, "Enough about that. What do you mean?"

Lupin wet his lips and took a moment to choose his words. Very carefully, he said, "I experienced a... a personal revelation, you could call it, before I turned myself in."

"What happened?"

He simply stated, "I saw my guilt. That I was wrong, and the only way to correct it was to repent."

"You saw your guilt?" Harper said. "Like, an abstract concept actually having a physical shape?" He moved his hands while saying this, trying to form some solid structure out of air.

"Yes."

"Well, you know, my, um, my master barrister used to have this saying, Try to hit the high notes.´ Not that I really listen to my former master barrister anymore," he amended hastily. Lupin could sense the hint of disgust in Harper´s voice at mentioning the man. "Well, what I´m trying to say is that elaboration is fun. You know, kick in that old creativity now and then wouldn´t hurt. Where were you? What was your motivation? Did you see anything, hear anything?"

"Serpents."

"What?"

"I saw serpents," he repeated darkly. "And there was a burning stench in the air, like the smell of a thousand roasting corpses. In my ears were the screams of countless millions and the raspy stirring of scales rubbing against the cold, stone floor." Lupin rose from his seat, slowly, as he said this. "And there, lying racked in the deadening folds of agony, locked between two conflicting worlds, I saw something. A light. A glory. The truth. I was a child again and I was running through the woods."

Lupin was standing by now, leaning forward toward the young barrister with both hands pressed down on the table. "It was the night I was bitten, and I could hear the wolf - Lycaos - gaining," he murmured in a rough voice. "My heart pounded the drumbeat of my slipping life, as it grew weaker and weaker. In my eyes all I could see was the boggy ground outside Hogsmeade. I looked behind me and could see the monster overcoming five steps in one bound, his yellow teeth dripping with spittle and the blood of my father..."

_And the cattails blowing in the wind, and Lycaos howling from afar. Lycaos was coming, he had to run! The ground swept beneath him - his laboured breathing thundered in his ears - his throat was going dry - and he fell - his father´s cross tumbled out of his grip..._

"And that was when I saw my guilt," he finished lightly. Lupin smiled. "Now how´s that for the theatrical?"

Harper gaped up at him with wide eyes that made his fewer years even more evident. Quickly shutting his mouth, he gave a quick nod. "That´ll do," he squeaked.

"Good." Lupin sat back down.

Harper straightened up in his seat, seemed to take quite adjusting his position and the lapels of his jacket before continuing.

"Mr. Lupin," he ventured. "How did you feel about Ms. Grisham?"

"I loved her," he replied sincerely. "There is nothing greater I can say about her, Mr. Harper, other than the fact that I loved her. And I still do."

"Did you view anything you have done to her with malicious intent?"

"Only my wolf. Never myself as a human being."

"I think we have everything we need," he said. Together, they reviewed what was written, which stick fairly close with Lupin´s words. Then, Harper took the parchment from the table and picked up the quill. With a flourish, Harper scribbled on the end, "_Signed under the PAINS and PENALTIES of PERJURY_," along with the date.

"Just sign at the X," he said.

Without hesitation, Lupin signed his full name on the dotted line above. Instantly, the scroll rolled up and a wax seal was stamped on the edge. "There we go." Harper tucked it in his briefcase.

"May I ask a question, Mr. Harper?"

"Um, sure."

"Have you heard from her?"

"Oh... you mean, Ms. Grisham?"

"Yes." He waited.

"Well, um, I actually have received some information about her whereabouts..." Harper said not unhappily. "She´s been shafted from place to place for awhile, when the Registry couldn´t list her status, but I think she ended up at St. Anne´s Home for Wayward Magical Orphans, down south."

"An orphanage?"

"The Ministry wanted to keep her as their witness. In the case you were ever found..."

_Or perhaps they mean to keep her indefinitely_, Lupin thought to himself. The Muggle world still thinks her dead, then... "And what of her parents?"

"No clue." Harper bit his lip and added hurriedly, "I´ve seen pictures. Of the Home, I mean. Nice place. Reminds me of an American homestead, with the big grassy lawn and the white picket fence. There´s an oak tree in the front, with a wooden swing," he said helpfully. "It doesn´t look like a terrible spot to live in."

Lupin stared off for a few moments. "I see..."

After all this time, and the answer was so simple! He had no idea where St. Anne´s was, but if he could get there...

The thought was trampled in its infancy. No, he would not try and see her. He couldn´t.

"Now we move onto the second order of business." Running a hand through his thatched-cut hair, Harper explained, "The charges the prosecution are filing against you is malicious attack with intent to kill. It´s a hefty charge, even if the victim was only a Muggle. Muggles rarely have any consideration under wizard law; this is one of the rare exceptions. But the prosecution wants to cut a deal with us."

"Already?"

"Eighty-five percent of all cases end with pleas bargains," Harper said, listing the fact as if reading it from a textbook. "They never see the light of a courtroom, never pass in front of the judge´s eyes."

Lupin nodded, unsure what to expect.

"I can get eighteen years," he said.

"What?"

"Eighteen years, instead of usual twenty-five." Harper cleared his throat. His left hand tapped on the table anxiously. "You might get off sooner for good behaviour."

This took awhile for Lupin to absorb. "Eighteen years?"

"Yes, Mr. Lupin."

Then, stillness reigned. Harper´s fingers rapped out an aimless tune against the polished wood.

Lupin couldn´t decide whether to believe Harper or not. Eighteen years? Sirius had suffered for twelve in Azkaban, and Lupin could recall how hollow and empty his friend´s eyes had become at times, in the dark hours at night when they had been together in Scotland. Was he destined to become worse than that? Eighteen years was long, but if that was his time...

"That is, if we get what we want during the hearing," Harper added abruptly.

"The hearing."

Harper gave a stiff nod. His drumming increased in intensity and volume as time passed. "The, um, the courts are going to have a special hearing in about three days... to see if you qualify as a being under wizard law." Harper cleared his throat again; Lupin wondered if he needed a drink. Then, recalling the whisky bottle Harper kept in his desk, Lupin figured that he just might.

"Please, I need to have time to think about all this." Lupin propped an elbow on the table and leaned his forehead against his hand. "You´re saying that I have a chance at avoiding the Dementor's Kiss if I qualify as a being and plead guilty?"

Harper nodded quickly. Now the tapping had progressed into rhythmic pounding of all four fingers against the table. Lupin tried to ignore it as the barrister explained. "You´re, um, you´re a really special case, Mr. Lupin, since your birth qualifies you as a wizard, but your, um... condition says otherwise." Finally, Harper slapped his hand on the table. "Listen, do you mind if I take a smoke?"

"Oh, well, no, I wouldn´t."

Giving a sigh of relief, Harper took out a cigarette and lit it up by touching its tip to the end of his wand. "Thank the gods," he muttered, taking a drag. "I´m sorry about that. I´ve been trying to quit for awhile, but it´s quite difficult."

"I see," said Lupin. The memory about how they first met, when Harper had let a smoking cigarette light his desk on fire came to his mind. "Bad habits are hard to break then?"

"You learn a lot of bad habits when going into law," Harper joked. Hastily, he added, "But I´ve had a lot of experience."

"Oh really?" Lupin couldn´t help asking, knowing otherwise.

"No, not a, not a _bad_ sort of experience. This is my sixth year here at the Ministry," Harper told him in an assured tone.

_Six years was an awfully long time for one to be apprenticed,_ Lupin thought.

"I see," he replied dryly. "Can you tell me about any certain strategy you are going to use?"

"There hasn´t been much case law to go on, but there´s a clause or two which I have up my sleeve," Harper assured him. "And some documents that I´m pulling from your personal file. I hope you don´t mind," he added quickly. "I´m not trying to snoop into your life or anything, but a barrister has to do what he has to do. Yet I can tell you this," he went on hastily, "once we´ve got you recognized as a being, then you can have every bit of confidence that I will get you as far away from the Dementor´s Kiss as possible." He grinned as the smoke drifted in front of his dark eyes like dragon´s breath. "Only eighteen years, you know. You´ll still have the rest of your life to live."

" Only eighteen years, you know. You´ll still have the rest of your life to live!´ " Harper slammed down his briefcase at his desk and slumped into his seat. Smashing the stub of his cigarette into a half-filled mug of cold coffee, he then put his head in his hands.

"What kind of idiot says something like that?" It was probably enough to make a fool of himself in front of Mr. Lupin. Simply _wonderful_. He would _bet_ that Mr. Lupin trusted him now.

Giving a sigh, Harper drew out his wand and flicked his wrist at the mug. Its contents disappeared. He still had to figure out a way to break the habit too; smoking was not allowed at Nemesis Courthouse.

Despite his higher standing, Harper still worked from his cubicle; only barristers who have earned their place at the Ministry get their own offices. Over his desk was a sign one of his friends had given to him as a gift for his new position at the Ministry. The sign was picked up while the friend was visiting relations in West Virginia; on it were the words: "NO TRESPASSING: SOLICITORS WILL BE SHOT."

Stacked on opposite sides of the desk to distribute the weight correctly were several large leather-bound tomes of case law he borrowed from the department´s library. Harper had trucked through about half of them in the past week, and he came up with very little in favour of werewolves.

And what a werewolf he was defending! Harper had never met one before, and the thought of seeing Mr. Lupin rattled his confidence a bit. He didn´t know who to feel sorry for more: Mr. Lupin or himself. He was surprised that the werewolf took the plea bargain so well. Then again, the werewolf was nicer to him than some of his own colleagues. For some reason, Mr. Lupin felt awfully familiar, but Harper couldn´t place his finger on it. _Déjà vu_ was a belief he didn´t subscribe to though, so he quickly dismissed any odd feelings about his client.

Maybe it was his naïveté talking, but Mr. Lupin didn't seem so horrid as the charges made him out to be. When he spoke about Ms. Grisham, it brought out a side of him that would make him seem likeable to anyone. Mr. Lupin´s eyes would grow distant and vague, and his voice became very gentle, almost reverent at time, and then loud and joyful at others. Harper wondered what kind of people Lupin knew who would bring such happiness to him in memory.

Pure rage was what Harper expected when he uttered Mr. Lupin´s possible sentence, and look, he was still alive to say it again. Perhaps it was Fortuna´s grace smiling down on him that prevented Harper from getting creamed upon proposing that his client should go stay with the Dementors for almost two decades. Harper should be thanking his lucky stars right about now.

Azkaban was the only option with any shred of hope. Harper dreaded the other option, and was glad that Mr. Lupin didn´t inquire about it. Still, in the back of his mind, Harper knew this: if Mr. Lupin were to be judged under beast law, the circumstances would be entirely different. Beasts had no souls, and therefore, wizards justified more physical punishments. Most likely, Mr. Lupin would end up going to the chopping block at dawn if he went to trial as a beast.

_The poor man,_ Harper thought. _Or poor beast, um, person, creature... guy... _

He lugged the first tome of case law onto the desk. A flurry of dust was sent up when he cracked open the cover. Coughing, Harper turned to the back of the book for the beast laws. He fished a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. It was going to be a long night.

Chapter 27

Time passed quickly, and on the day of the hearing, Lupin woke up and smiled. He didn´t know why he did - maybe it was an expression of relief. No more waiting, no more uncertainties. Today was the day.

"He´s neurotic," the guard whispered. "Look at him sitting there, smiling to himself."

"Finally, he´s starting to break down," agreed his companion as they unlocked the gate. "I was starting to get worried for awhile."

They checked his shackles again, and then led him down into a small room outside the jail area called the "Transport Room." No Apparating in and out the courthouse was allowed, but transportation to and from the institution was made through a quick spell that lead to the "docks," a small area separate from the courthouse where prisoners came and went.

On the way to the Transport Room, Lupin saw a dumpy form down the hall heading to the elevator. It was Lottie Gordon. Lupin checked the time; she was staying much later than her usual shift. He wondered why.

He wished that he could have called out her name, but found that it would have been useless. Lottie had no idea who he was when he was Remus Lupin. Lupin wondered when she received Douglas Ridley´s letter of resignation, or whether Mr. Burtman told her that Ridley had pulled a nutty in his office.

The three of them walked into the tight room, where another guard gave them the signal for Apparating. A wand was waved and the room swirled into mist and cold before appearing into a room identical only in appearance.

Stepping out onto the docks, Lupin saw the place packed tighter than a box of Fizzing Whizzbees. Wizards and witches came not only from Edinburgh but as far off as Cardiff and Belfast, where the other UK MoM branches were located. One could tell where each prisoner came from by the colours of the jailer's uniforms: orange and navy blue were from Northern Ireland, light blue and white came from Wales, and the Edinburgh guards sported black outfits trimmed with tartan red.

Walking through the crowd, Lupin could tell who were the defendants, not only by their dress, but by their looks; they were the ones with tense, worried faces. Only one or two were shackled like him with escorts. Lupin saw nothing but fear in their eyes.

From the docks, the group funnelled down through three large doors into the actual courthouse. Lupin expected the Nemesis Courthouse to have a regal, solemn air, like a church. He could never be more wrong. The Nemesis Courthouse was a sprawling stone and marble building with vaulted ceilings that made even the slightest noise echo. People swarmed thicker than flies on a week-old carcass, moving in and out. More MLES officers were escorting shackled wizards; others, presumably on bail, moved freely alongside their barristers. Everyone, except for the officers and those without bail, were dressed as if going off to job interviews. A low noise filled the air with a hundred voices murmuring and the rustle of starched robes and the dull _click_,_ click, click_ of shined shoes along the corridors.

All of them entered down a ramp separate from the lobby that lead to the basement of the courthouse. Here, the walls were cut dry stone and the floors were made of cold and clammy cement. The MLES officers moved them down a broad hallway to the large jail cell area the colour of dirty mayonnaise. The barred door was opened and they were pushed through, like cattle, and then locked up.

The few others with him quickly sat on the wooden benches facing away from each other. Lupin took his place at the end of a crowded bench. He tried not to look at the others. The prisoners had a dry, hollow presence around them, as if the legal system stripped all sense of hope from their spirits. All of them were older than Lupin, except for one girl, who looked no older than fifteen.

"Hey," she greeted, sliding next to him. "What are you in for?"

Lupin didn´t even look at her. He didn´t want to look at anything but the cold, hard cement. He wanted to be alone.

"No one talks here," the female prisoner continued lightly. "D´you wonder why?"

"Perhaps they have their own difficulties which mute them," Lupin replied shortly.

"I killed my Mum and Daddy," the girl said flatly.

Startled, Lupin turned. "What?"

"Daddy was mean," she insisted. "He deserved to die. And Mum just got in the way. She couldn´t help it; she got in the way." The girl leaned in until her side pressed against his. Closing in so that her mouth was next to his ear, she whispered, "Now it´s your turn. What´d you do?"

"I´d rather not say." Getting to his feet, Lupin walked over to the other side of the pen and sat on the other bench. The girl got up and followed him.

"Daddy didn´t like me going out with other men. He said I was too young to be with them." She moved to sit in front of him and stared large, bovine eyes. "He said I shouldn´t date. But I wasn´t dating." She bent forward and Lupin shuffled back uncomfortably. "I was having sex. Lots and lots of sex." She said it so that the word hissed out between her cracked lips.

Then, she added lowly, "You look an awful lot like Daddy."

"Mr. Lupin." Harper was at the barred gate, tapping against it with one hand.

Lupin made his way over to the gate post-haste, trying not to acknowledge the psychotic teen behind him. "Are we up soon?"

"In about half an hour." Harper motioned for the guard to unlock the gate. He did, and Lupin said to the guard, "Thank you. Thank you very, very much."

They walked down the hall, following the guard past a wooden divider to a set of table and chairs for them to confer together one last time. As he sat, Lupin saw that Harper´s face was flushed, and for a moment Lupin feared he had been drinking. "Are you feeling well?"

"Me? Well?" answered his barrister. "Yeah. Sure. Why not? I´m fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. In fact, more than fine. I´m _finer_." He paused, and then prompted, "Readytogo?"

"Um... yes..." He hesitated. "You look a bit riddled up today."

"Oh, if I was lucky, I´d get some gum," said Harper. "A swell mate told me about chewing gum to calm the nerves. He works at Edinburgh, somewhere, I think he´s a janitor, but I haven´t seen him around in a while, but anyway, I can´t be chewing gum on my first case in Nemesis Courthouse oh no, oh no, I don´t think so!"

Lupin said slowly, "I think you should sit down for a bit."

"Splendid idea! Simply splendid!" Harper slipped into his chair and fell forward, tucking his head between his knees.

"Mr. Harper!"

The barrister wheezed loudly for several minutes beneath the table before sticking his head up again. "I´m just peachy keen," he replied pleasantly. "And you?"

"Doing well," Lupin answered, giving him a wary glance.

His barrister´s current state was far from court behaviour. "We could always delay the hearing," Lupin supplied.

"I can´t do that."

"Call in sick, file a motion, anything. I´m not sure I want my counsel in near hysterics fifteen minutes before he goes in."

"I only have to relax." Harper breathed in and closed his eyes. "Some trick a janitor friend taught me. He helped me pass the bar exam, y´know. I haven´t seem him around lately, though; I wonder where Doug Ridley went..." Giving his head a rough shake, he closed his eyes and mumbled a mantra to himself.

"It´s all a waterfall... down at the ankles... rising up to the knees..."

Recognizing it as the waterfall exercise he once showed him, Lupin kept quiet.

"You should see me when I´m not stressed," Harper said. "I don´t even know why I´m so apprehensive. I'm feeling great. Marvelous. Goddamn magnificent."

Trying to refocus his barrister's nerves, he asked, "Is there anything I should know when I go out there?"

"Oh, yeah! You're going to be there too, aren't you?" Harper put a hand to his temple and shook his head a bit. "Ye gods, I've never been this nervous before. It's giving me a headache... but when did I ever get headaches like this...?" He blinked rapidly and rubbed his eyes.

"Mr. Harper," said Lupin steadily. "Did you take anything before coming here?"

"Excuse me? Never mind, whatever I said." Harper straightened up and instructed, "There shouldn't be a problem at all. Just sit tight and look innocent. No talking. Be polite. Pretend that you´re meeting your in-laws for the first time, then multiply that by a hundred and you won't have a thing to worry about." He was talking slower now, and looking more comfortable, though still feverish. Lupin decided not to rattle his barrister´s composure further by asking any more needless questions.

"I'm... I´m going up," he prompted himself. "See you inside."

Harper rose, more or less unsteadily, and picked up his briefcase. Lupin gave him a nod before he departed.

When he left, Lupin remained with a pair of court guards. He looked at them and they looked at him. One nodded, then so did the other and Lupin was pulled out of his chair and stuck between them.

Moving past the pen, they received little notice from the other prisoners, except for that murderess who spoke to him earlier. She grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.

Someone called out behind him, "Dead wolf walking." Lupin arched his neck to catch whom it was, but was shoved forward.

He was brought back upstairs and walked down the hallway past other courtrooms. Some were overflowing; through court doors left ajar, he could hear attorneys arguing, and the courtroom clerks calling out announcements. Only one courtroom was unoccupied. The double doors were thrown back so that one could see its vast proportions. It was designed like a small stadium, with rows and rows of seats circling the small area in the middle. The judge´s podium sat as if on great wooden haunches before the centre. There, right in the middle, was an iron-backed chair with steel rivets.

Lupin took a quick breath as he recognized the War Tribunal, the court where Bartemius Crouch presided over accused Death Eaters. It was where Sirius was sentenced to life in Azkaban, without even a proper trial. _"This is human justice..."_

Moving past the War Tribunal, Lupin came to the end of the corridor, where his hearing was being announced.

Stepping in, he saw Harper and the prosecutor sitting in their individual counsel tables on either side of the courtroom. Harper gave him a stiff smile as Lupin sat down.

The courtroom was vast and regally designed. The room was bright with the light of fifty witch fires coloured gold and red. These torches were always burning and emitted no smoke. Tapestries of wizards fighting various monsters hung over the smooth walls of stone. Etched into three marble columns along the back wall were smooth. A Chinese Fireball wrapped itself around the column to the furthest right. A unicorn with flowing tresses reared up on the column on the opposite corner. The middle column had the image of a phoenix pressed into the stone; set in its eyes were giant red rubies that broke the light into a hundred dazzling fractures. A little ways in front of this column was the raised judge´s bench made of golden brown wood. The seal for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was carved on the front of the bench. Beside it was a giant, gothic chair with for the witness, and located in front and off to the right was a smaller chair for the court clerk.

The bailiff, a graceful West Indies woman with her hair tied back in a bun, stepped forward. "All rise and remain standing!"

From a door by the bench, an immense figure in red-toned robes emerged. His build was more like a caddy cart with a sheet thrown over it than an actual body; he did not look obese, but simply immense, as if he could ram down the court doors with his head. The judge lumbered up to the steps to his seat and sat down. Unlike the British Muggle courts, he sported no powdered wig, and neither did either of the barristers.

"Hear ye! Hear ye!" said the bailiff. "This hearing of the Ministry of Magic is now in session, the Honourable Judge Solomon Minos presiding. All persons having business herein can now be heard. You may be seated."

As one being, they sat. Then, she announced, "Calling criminal case number 765-876-934: The UK Ministry of Magic vs. Remus Lupin. May the defence and prosecution please rise and approach the judge. Please state your appearances for the record."

Harper shot up from his seat.

"Samuel Harper, representing the defendant," he chirped.

The prosecutor rose and drawled, "Hogarth Borden, representing the Ministry´s interests."

"This hearing is being conducted upon the matter of Mr. Lupin´s legal status. Mr. Harper, what would you have to state?"

"My- my client respectfully asks to be considered under being status by wizarding law, Your Lord."

Borden turned his head and let a lazy grin cross his face. Harper flashed a shaky smile in return and stood up straighter.

This all gave Lupin a discomforting feeling. Was counsel supposed to share expressions during the hearing? Perhaps Borden was Harper´s mentor?

The prosecutor lifted his statue with a lazy air and said, "Your Lord, Mr. Lupin´s status as it stands now has _always_ been under beast recognition and should _not_ be ignored. Such a suggestion otherwise is preposterous."

"That- that is not true," Harper defended. "I have documented proof of Lupin´s being status." He held up a small scroll. "Why I have right in my hand a birth certificate proclaiming my client´s status as a _human being_--"

"A birth certificate is irrelevant information at this time, Mr. Harper," Borden cut off smugly. He gave Harper a disapproving eye. Seeing that, Harper drew back his extended arm. "I have a copy of Mr. Lupin´s werewolf registration right here, which overrides your birth certificate."

Magistrate Minos grunted. "Let the defence and prosecution present both documents to the bench."

Harper promptly moved forward, but Borden lagged behind with easy-paced steps. The magistrate took both scrolls and unrolled them.

"As you can see, Your Lord, Mr. Lupin´s registration as a werewolf is the mark of the beast." The prosecutor handed over a second scroll from his jacket. "And this is a copy of the Werewolf Code of Conduct agreement, signed in 1967, where Mr. Lupin´s legal guardian Murphy Brundy also acknowledged Mr. Lupin´s legal status and his willingness to abide by the Code."

Magistrate Minos inquired, "The court assumes that Mr. Lupin was still a minor at that time and thus unable to sign himself?"

"That is correct, Your Lord."

Harper turned to Borden. "Were, um, there any other versions of the Code agreement?"

Lupin caught a moment of actual surprise on the prosecutor´s part. "Not on record at the Edinburgh branch of the Registry."

"May the, the, uh, prosecution admit, then, that, um, Mr. Lupin did _not_ sign another copy of the Code when he became of age because he was _not considered_ under beast status?" Harper turned back to the magistrate and continued, leaving Borden with an affronted expression on his face.

"And here- here´s a copy of Mr. Lupin´s school registrar," countered Harper, presenting another scroll, "which acknowledged his acceptance to the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in 1971. According to Code of Wand Use, Clause 3, no non-being is allowed the use of a wand. Mr. Lupin, however, had been accepted and taught at the school under consideration as a being. His beast status was then changed, as marked on the registrar."

It looked like Harper truly knew something after all! Lupin watched from his seat, more reassured than before.

The judge took all the documents at hand adjusted his spectacles. Looking through them, he asked, "Have these documents been sent in duplication for court records?"

"Yes, Your Lord," the barristers said in unison, and Harper shrunk away from Borden´s gaze. By now, Borden´s fat face changed from sincere mentor to something not quite as friendly.

"Your Lord!" he burst out, chins flapping. "We must keep in mind the circumstances surrounding the case. A girl was brutally _attacked_, and no--"

"Which, um, brings me to another point," said Harper. Borden shot him a dirty look beneath the judge´s nose and Harper flinched. "Well, um, I would, um, uh..."

"You are saying?" the judge grumbled.

"That- that- that-" His stammer got worse while Borden pasted on another cheerful face to replace that one which rotted on his features.

"Your Lord, the defendant's counsel does not acknowledge the basic facts of the case," Borden said in a voice so sweet that one could drip it on his pancakes for breakfast. "Under the Werewolf Code of Conduct, it states that all attacks against humans, whether accidental or otherwise, should be the fault of the werewolf, for it is the werewolf´s responsibility to ensure the public´s safety from his or her wolf.´ Now, granted, although Mr. Harper´s legal documents may have some validity to them, they cannot supersede an established Code which the _creature_ has to abide by since he had been bitten."

Lupin noted the stress on the word "creature" and turned his eyes to the ground, containing his emotion. He glanced up again to see Harper visibly upset over those words, almost foolishly so. The fervour was drained from his face, and Lupin could see his face shining with sweat. The poor boy--! Lupin clenched his hands around the edges of his seat and almost willed with his soul for Harper to gain back some of his assertiveness.

Harper swayed a bit, as if it were a physical strike against him, and put a hand on the bench. "Your... Your Lord, may I bring up the recent case of the _UK Ministry of Magic vs. Ianikit_," he said in a wavering voice. He quickly wiped his brow with his sleeve. "In that case in question, the werewolf, Mr. Jarohnen Ianikit, committed a crime while in human form that was not held against his wolf--"

"And that crime was murder, just as Mr. Lupin almost committed murder," Mr. Borden pointed out.

"O-objection! The prosecution is going into the findings of the case! Murder was never my client's intent."

Both men stared at him. "You don't object during a hearing," the judge said dryly.

Harper could only nod. Lupin wanted to stand up and say something - the boy looked as if he were going to be sick, possibly out of frazzled nerves - but Lupin didn't dare break court rules. He wasn't supposed to say anything.

"And anyhow, those may be fast words, Mr. Harper, but hasty assumptions are quickly disproved." Turning a sly eye in the guise of a concerned look, Borden added, "I believe that the counsel's suggestion can barely hold water." The syrup returned as the prosecutor appealed to the judge once more. Harper, breathing in shallow breaths, could only focus on standing as Borden's argument overwhelmed the court.

"This case involves the welfare of a _child_, Your Lord. You _must_ concern yourself with setting the precedent for attacks upon minors. May I bring up the case of _Mansfield vs. Longfellow,_ where the victim in question was a thirteen year-old boy."

"How unfair are you going to be if you base this case on an incident that occurred 200 years ago!" Harper snapped, his face gone almost sallow.

"By my knowledge, the Werewolf Code of Conduct was written almost four hundred years ago and it´s still in valid use," the magistrate rumbled.

This was all too much!

Lupin stood up. "Excuse me, Your Lord," he said.

The three of them stared at him in surprise, as if they had never expected to see him sitting there, listening as they discussed his fate.

"I would graciously ask for a few moments to speak with my counsel," Lupin said. "If that is allowed."

Judge Minos moved his great head. "I deem that a reasonable request." He cast a pitying eye upon Harper, who was floundering so much that he didn't even notice. "I'm granting a ten-minute recess to contemplate the presented evidence." He moved out of his seat and into his chambers with the scrolls, but not without a backwards glance at Harper. Borden settled back down at the table, trying to appear busy.

Lupin went over to Harper and pulled him into a chair at his table.

"Do you want to go on?" Lupin asked bluntly. "Maybe you need to go outside and take a smoke."

"Oh, it feels like Thor's pounding on my skull..." Harper shook his head exaggeratedly. His breath was coming out too slowly for Lupin's liking. "I don't need it. Seriously," he said, giving a scoff, "I have enough nicotine pumped into my system that a fag is the last thing on my mind." He gave a weak laugh, before taking out a handkerchief out to mop his brow again.

"What are you talking about?" demanded Lupin.

His barrister gestured to his left arm, which lay limp on the table. Lupin rolled up his sleeve and saw five small white patches along the inside of his forearm. "What's all this?" he demanded.

"Nicotine patches," Harper replied. "It's a Muggle thing I found. Pretty clever, isn't it?" He slumped back in his chair and watched him through half-lidded eyes.

"How many were you supposed to use?"

"Um... I dunno..." Harper put a hand to his forehead. "The instructions said one at the start of it..."

"One?"

"But one didn't work - I do a pack a day, you know - and so I thought if I upped the dosage a bit more..."

"When did you put those on?"

"This... this morning..."

"Mr. Harper, I suggest you take those off immediately!"

"Nonsense. This is the first time in months I've gone on this long without a cigarette..." Harper propped himself up against the table and stared at the empty bench. "Your Lord, if you may excuse me-"

_Thump!_

The barrister collapsed.

Oh God.

Lupin leapt from his seat and knelt by Harper's side, along with the bailiff. He jerked off the nicotine patched from the young man's forearm. They left sickly grey splotches on his skin.

"Merlin's beard, what happened?" the bailiff exclaimed.

"Call a doctor," Lupin said.

From across the room, Borden mildly asked, "Is there something wrong with Mr. Harper?"

Harper overdosed on nicotine. Lupin blinked in disbelief. If he had been someone else's attorney, Lupin would have thought it hilarious. Really, he would have.

The judge didn't seem shocked when he returned into the courtroom to see wizard paramedics put Harper on a stretcher and float him away. And from the pudgy grin that adorned Borden's face, Lupin had a sinking feeling that his legal status was not in his favour.

Chapter 28

The hearing's investigation stated that Remus Lupin, charged for malicious aggravated assault with the intent to kill, would be granted beast status for his upcoming trial. The judge declared the trial to be held in about six weeks.

All decisions made during the hearing were final. Legal status could not be reconsidered once the judge made his decision.

Since Lupin would be tried as a beast, he did not need legal representation anymore. And since he did not have legal representation anymore, he couldn't file any legal protest against his beast status.

Not that protesting mattered much by then. Lupin wasn't even sure if his legal representation (or was it former legal representation?) was coherent at the moment.

His footsteps echoed heavily in the sterile, white hallways. He was back in Edinburgh and the Registry was sending him down to the dungeon, the ancient stone and slime pits as old as Edinburgh itself. It was standard procedure to put potentially dangerous creatures in the most secure part of the building.

Lupin wondered how many werewolves before him were sent to the dungeons.

Up ahead, he saw a long figure standing in a closed hallway, mop in hand. His head lifted up for a moment, and then settled back down again. With the guards on either side of him, he passed by Lottie Gordon.

Lottie wasn't mopping, however. Her hands were locked stiff on the handle; she stood as frozen as if she saw a headless ghoul and not Remus Lupin. Raising his eyes a bit, he caught her gaze. Her face had gone stark pale, and her mouth was shaped in a perfect "O."

Why was she looking at him so? Was this her reaction upon seeing a werewolf and a criminal in the flesh? Or did she finally associate him with her former employee Douglas Ridley? No, the latter was impossible; Lupin had taken the greatest pains in preventing his true identity from being revealed. She couldn't know he had been her "Dougie."

Ruefully, Lupin gave Lottie a weak smile, as if sharing an inside joke, though only he knew the whole truth. Lottie's face didn't change; instead, she plopped her broom back into her suds bucket and gathered the whole thing in her arms, running away as fast as her boots could go. For some reason, Lupin felt a pang of sadness. A lass who had treated him so warmly by another name now shunned him.

Soon, they reached the subterranean level of the building, even lower than the Incinerator was. The walls were damp and the air reeked of mould. Lupin coughed once and hesitated on the stairwell, but one of the guards pushed him downwards.

Stumbling forward, Lupin nearly tripped and fell down the steps, but the other guard jerked him upright. "_Lumos_," came the whispers, and two lights filled the gloom. Quickly, Lupin was escorted down the narrow stairwell to the bottom where the dungeon was. A mounted torch of green flame was the only source of light; outside the sickly luminescence, was little more than a black void.

Was there a guard here? Lupin never realized this place existed; its location wasn't even pointed out on Lottie's maps. This place wasn't a dungeon; it was a tomb.

The guards' lights led them to a bolted steel door that was rusted along the edges. A small barred window near the top looked into oblivion.

Instantly, the revulsion rattled through his soul. This place of darkness, no light, no light... Oh, even the Incinerator was better than this, this Ministry pit of ashes! At least the Incinerator had light!

Lupin's stomach twisted in knots, and he took in a shaky breath. He stared upwards. Not even a grate looking up towards the sky was there, only nothingness.

"What about the full moon?" he asked the guards, addressing them for the first time.

"That matter is not of our concern," one of them replied. Then the door was shut.

For the first time since he turned himself in, Lupin felt his resolution slip. He sat down on something hard and slick and cold; a wet, sticky feeling seeped through the seat of his pants and touched his skin. Lupin jumped, then wiped sludge off his clothes, and then wiped his hands clean. He tucked his hands beneath his elbows, feeling anxiety forming in his chest.

Never before was there this darkness; not even when he was locked up in the tumbled-down Shrieking Shack in the days of his youth was it ever this dark. Lupin shut his eyes and swore that his sight remained more comfortable that way.

How long would he be in this mess? Until Harper recovers? That could take days, even as much as a week. For some reason, Lupin pondered whether the Ministry planned on leaving him in this dungeon indefinitely; a werewolf trapped in the eternal night. The thought put him in an uneasy state; Lupin began to pace, hunching his frame like an old man. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven - thump! His shoe hit the wall. Only seven paces wide? And how long?

Lupin turned around and looked about blindly, trailing his hand along the slippery walls until he felt the crack of the door once again. Lupin turned his head and saw nothing; the curiosity within him died. He didn't need to know how long this cell was at all. In fact, Lupin could remain right here near the door, closest to that faded witch light and be comforted. There now, take those seven paces - one, two, three, four, five, six, seven - no, it wasn't so bad!

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. _Twenty-one paces so far_, he thought. And endless paces more.

Lupin was well aware he was probably in the safest place in the Edinburgh branch of the Ministry; a place so secure because few people knew about it, and even fewer went down there. So he had no logical reason to feel fear. And no, Lupin wasn't afraid of darkness, he never had been. But the thought of being trapped here... alone... for eternal hours... not a comfort to his name except a waning light beyond his reach...

His steps quickened. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven...

No, not so bad... not so bad... Lupin thrust his hand out into the depths until he touched the wall again. His heart slowed with this touch. Slowly, he took in a breath, counting in his mind. Then, he exhaled, counting again. _Just count and breathe and pace, count and breathe and pace,_ Lupin thought determinedly. _Concentrate on that and I will survive._

And so he did for an immeasurable amount of time; at times, his steps began to lag with fatigue, but the thought of sleeping was shunned from his mind, and he hurried forward. Then, the thought of rest greeted him again, and Lupin thought of how futile it was to waste his energy doing meaningless activity, and he slouched down against the wall. But the wretched texture of the dirty stone and the sharp dampness that numbed his skin made him bolt up again, wary, and in tired nervousness he paced. And paced. And paced.

Hours eroded away in the passages of his mind, but Lupin wasn't even sure if midnight had come upon him. Stirrings of hunger came to him, and his throat became dry and stinging from the unventilated air. Lupin ignored his body's cries for attention and kept on moving. He was determined to wear himself out until he collapsed senseless; unconsciousness was the only way to cope in this dank pit.

Quietly, after awhile, Lupin began murmuring to himself. A soft prayer worked itself from under Lupin's breath and into his routine. _Where would Mary be now?_ he wondered. She was probably at a wizarding foster home. What had Harper mentioned to him once? St. Anne's Home for Wayward Magical Orphans. Harper had seen pictures of the place; there was an oak by the front door with a small swing. The imaginings of Lupin's mind conjured that image and locked onto it. There, the wind gently rustled through the branches and the sun made spotted shadows on the grassy lawn. The swing swayed gently.

It was swaying because she was on it. Kicking her feet back and forth, back and forth, learning how to pump her legs and sustain the swing's motion by herself. Her clothes were much cleaner and newer than anything Lupin ever gave her; a new rose pink dress with white stockings. And ribbons in her hair; she always liked to have her hair done.

Mary was on the swing humming a little tune as the sunlight made white highlights through her curls. She was happy and safe. There were other children for her to play with. She had good meals and a roof over her head.

And Lupin was trapped underground for her sake. Because he knew that, despite the sweet songs he imagined her singing, despite the friendly house and the warm sunshine, he knew it was just a fancy in her mind. But he wanted her to sing. He wanted her to be happy. So this was the only way he knew how to bring it about.

Lupin was determined to bring Mary home so she would never have to feel alone. And he must face the penance for the sins he had wrought. He owed her that. He owed Him that.

Remus Lupin made a promise. Now he was going to keep it.

Then, quite suddenly, he realised that he wasn't alone. Distant noises were heard from above his head; footsteps were coming down the stairs. They were quite loud. Lupin supposed it was because a) the person was stumbling in an attempt to climb the steps or b) he wanted to signify his presence.

Lupin wondered who this person approaching was; he has a vague hope that it was Lottie, though he didn't know why. Perhaps it was Harper, recovered already. The brighter side to that was that he could probably find a way to help Lupin out of this place.

"Mr. Harper, is that you?" he called.

No answer.

The brightness of a lantern's light reached the bars and he looked out. A figure appeared before him, but the brightness of the lamp blinded him from seeing exactly who it was. The figure moved hastily away from his view and positioned itself against the wall by his door, on the hinged side. The lamp it carried was covered, and the world was plunged into darkness once again. Lupin felt his way to the barred window and looked about. The figure was still, as if anticipating something.

"Who are you?" he inquired, but was met with another silent reply.

Moments later a small sound, like a vacuum starting up, echoed in the chamber. Lupin turned around. What was that?

A subtle glow filled the room - an empty hollow expanded a few metres away from him - the rustle of newspapers reached his ears - Lupin could see another set of vague outlines, which become more and more defined - someone was singing aloud in a slurred voice -

"The rank is but the guinea's stamp  
Bu' a man's a ' man for a' tha'!"

Three men stood in his cell. The leader folded up the newspaper he used as a Portkey and raised his hand in a gesture of greeting.

"Hello comrade," said one of them. "Nice to see ya face again."

"Jarohnen?" Lupin blurted out.

Jarohnen Ianikit said smartly, "Statin' the obvious: a sign that my good wolf still has his mental capacities."

Behind him, Ulysses held a lantern. He put down the lantern and dimmed the light. Another man leaned against him; the third clung to Ulysses' side as if depending on his support. The Freedom Hound leader gave Lupin a nod, then moved off to the shadows with his companion.

Jarohnen tossed him a bundle. "Change quickly. We don't have much time."

Reflexively, Lupin caught it. "Clothes?" He drew them out; they were old Muggle army fatigues.

"You don't want to wear a jail robe outside of jail, right?" Jarohnen put an arm around him. With the other he drew out a bottle and shook it with one hand. "It'll only be a pinch."

"What?"

"Here," Jarohnen said, taking out a switchblade strapped to his boot. "I'll prink your hand."

"Three minutes!" said Ulysses.

Jarohnen took hold of Lupin's arm and jabbed the inside of his palm. "Just a drop."

"Ow!" Lupin recoiled, but Jarohnen grabbed his hand and squeezed several drops of crimson into the bottle. When he let go, Lupin closed his fist to hold back the bleeding.

"Good enough," the Russian wolf said, passing off the bottle to his partner.

"What are you doing here?" Lupin asked.

"You're not makin' it any easier, Comrade Remus, but then again, ya never knew. Time?"

"Two forty-five," came Ulysses' voice from the shadows. He slumped the drunkard against the wall. "Cheers to you," he said, tipping the bottle.

"Wha' is this?" Wha' is-?" The man's voice was drowned out as he choked down the liquid.

"What is going on?" The smell of rotting eggs and prune juice filled the air. Lupin backed away, hand over his fist.

"Security is down, but the magical monitors are still up. We don't have much time," Ulysses explained.

"Time for what?"

"Things would be easier if ya listened. Come over here, get the paper!"

Ulysses fetched the Portkey as Lupin moved back against the door. "What is that man doing here?"

"No questions now," Jarohnen snapped. "Time?"

"One minute."

"Escape? This is an escape?" Lupin's voice rose. "I won't allow this!"

The old Freedom Hounds kept on working, regardless. "The shock has ya down, but hurry up."

"Forty-five seconds." Ulysses had a hand around the drunkard's shoulders and stepped into the light.

Lupin gazed into his own face, flushed with alcohol. Instantly, he understood. "No," he whispered.

The Russian wolf ordered, "Hand him here."

In Lupin's voice, the drunkard said, "I feel funny..."

Jarohnen put a hand around the man's waist and another clutched the top of his skull.

"Wha´ are you-?"

_Crack!_

Lupin's double fell limp in his arms. Jarohnen took Lupin's belt and hooked it around the man's neck.

"Take my hand," Ulysses said. "We'll be making the jump soon."

"No." Lupin replied, louder. "Leave me."

Lupin's reaction finally sank in. "You don't want to go?" Ulysses said.

The two older men exchanged glances, and a silent communication passed between them.

Jarohnen dropped the body to the ground and did a low kick. Lupin tripped. Ulysses looped his arm around his neck in a headlock. A rag appeared in his free hand that he clamped over his mouth and nose. Lupin tasted dry cotton. Stinging, bitter fumes entered his nostrils. Immediately, he bit down, but got nothing but cloth. Bad move: Ulysses forced the stained rag down his throat; Lupin felt his eyes water. He gagged, felt his feet moving out from under him, then--

_Wham!_

Slimed stone collided with his skull in an explosion of pain. Lupin saw black stars and flashing light. Then, he remembered. There was someone outside the door! There was a witness to all this! "Help!" he yelled in a muffled voice at the top of his lungs. You there! Get help! Get help!"

The choking smell made his head spin; it was so strong he could taste it on his tongue. Chloroform, it must be; it made his vision swim. Lupin fell into Ulysses' grip and let his head slump forward.

Another blackness crept over his eyes, like someone had spilled a bottle of India ink over his vision. Lupin could make out Jarohnen in front of the door, throwing the belt over the crossbar. "Time."

"Ten seconds."

The body hung in front of him like a piece of meat in a butcher's window. Slowly, it turned and Lupin stared into his own dead eyes...

Vaguely, Lupin heard Jarohnen's voice. "Who was he talkin' to?"

And then there was nothing.

Lupin awoke to light: a dull luminescent glow. The glow expanded and became clearer, purer. He stared for a long time. Slowly, it dawned on him that he could see. The darkness of the dungeon was gone, replaced by the empty stillness of an unfamiliar room. The ceiling and walls were whitewashed, but were dirty and cracked in many places. Old dust attacked his nose; he coughed, painfully, being in need of water to quench his parched throat.

Then, as if someone read his thoughts, a thermos cup was lifted to his lips. Lupin drank the cool water and let his head fall back on the stiff pillow. He moved his gaze to the bedside.

His lips whispered her name. "Claire?"

She smiled generously. Her grey eyes glistened like polished silver in the lamplight. So much time had passed since he had seen her that Lupin had forgotten how wonderful she looked when she smiled. His eyes fell upon her simple attire: a loose dark green jacket zipped up with a blanket over her knees. The blanket seemed terribly out of place.

Impulsively, he smiled back weakly and asked, "Where am I? What happened?" He tried to straighten up, but Claire put a finger to his lips.

"No questions now," she whispered. "You're safe." She moved back. "I want to look at you."

He could hear the breath in his ears as her stare penetrated him. There was something searching in her gaze, as if all the solutions to her hidden problems lay trapped beneath his eyes. Her hand moved, as if to touch him, but drew back and rested itself on her knee once more.

Her eyes shifted to the floor, re-orienting herself, then guided themselves back to him. "_Je me souviens,_" she whispered with startling realisation.

"What?"

"I remember," she repeated in English. Her face lit up and it seemed that all the pieces fell into place. Her hand reached out and brushed the sleeve of his shirt, touching him like he was a fragile being, or no more than a dream. He sat up again, slowly, and her hand travelled up his sleeve and rested on his shoulder.

"It's you..." Claire hesitated, and then, in a sudden outpouring of emotion, took him in her arms.

Shocked, Lupin didn't react at first. He also had forgotten how it felt to be held.

Something hard and binding was between them; something Claire was wearing. Gingerly, he wrapped his arms around her waist and felt the outline of unforgiving metal and plastic underneath her jacket.

Claire's grip tightened. He smelled lavender in her hair; he felt her chest rise and fall against his, and he stared ahead, his face expressionless in his confusion.

Instantly, his hands froze.

A brace.

Why was she wearing a brace? What happened to her?

Now Lupin noticed how stiffly Claire had moved toward him and how rigid her body felt against his. Seeing over her shoulder, Lupin spotted the wheelchair propped against the wall.

His arms dropped.

What.

Happened?

His mouth opened slightly, then shut. Lupin turned his eyes away.

"We saved you," Claire murmured in a broken voice.

_We saved you._ Saved? Lupin's eyes travelled around the room. How was he saved? Where was he? What happened to her? These questions became more urgent in his mind, growing larger and larger. Where was he? How did he escape the Ministry? What did she mean by "saved?"

His memory recalled its last recordings. The eternal night, the stranger by the door, Jarohnen and Ulysses, calling out for help... And that dead body with those eyes glazing over in the darkness...

Claire let go and gazed into his face. "What is wrong?" she asked.

Lupin looked at her but could not say.

End of Part 8.


	9. Reality vs Illusion

Edited July 2004 for minor grammar changes.

Wolf by Ears

Part Nine: Reality vs. Illusion

By D.M.P.

Every man feels that perception gives him an invincible belief of the existence of that which he perceives; and that this belief is not the effect of reasoning, but the immediate consequence of perception.

- Thomas Reid

Well, if crime fighters fight crime and fire fighters fight fire, what do freedom fighters fight? They never mention that part to us, do they?

- George Carlin 

Chapter 29

On a crowded street in London around noontime, a telephone box opened its doors. Out of it stepped a tall black man wearing a long dark overcoat over an undistinguishable suit. Sunlight glinted off his gold earring as he slipped on a pair of streamlined sunglasses.

He turned his head to the alleyway only a few metres away. In the shadows sat a dog, a chocolate-brown Labrador.

"Hey you," said the man.

The dog blinked.

Walking over, he went down on one knee and clipped a small brass locket onto the dog's collar. "Bode slipped this to me in a memo this morning," he said. "Good thing it was too small for anyone to notice."

The dog gave no response. It turned its head as the telephone box gave a shudder.

"Tell him I said hi." With a small smile, he added, "And current reports say that he's floating along the Ganges River. I'm thinking about placing him somewhere Far East later on, like Tibet."

The doors opened once again and out popped a slight, pale girl sporting a vibrant green mohawk. "Hey, Kingsley, where's that Indian place you wanted us to check out?" She looked about. "Kingsley?"

"Over here, Tonks," he called out. "So long," he said to Zaria, giving her one last scratch behind the ears. Zaria gave one last farewell blink, then turned around and trotted down the alley.

Meeting up with his fellow Auror, Kingsley Shacklebolt said, "Just a few blocks from here. I'm telling you, they have the best curry chicken I have ever tasted…"

Jarohnen stood by the table, holding the Stradivarius. Claire had brought it with her when she came; he was rubbing it down with a scrap of velvet. For a long time they remained in his private room, taking silent comfort in one another. She liked their silences; one can tell how close one is to another by the silences they hold together. No awkwardness, no fretting, no needless conversation. They were only there, and they both happened to be quiet.

Ever since Ulysses had reached her with his letter about Jarohnen – _He's back_ – apprehensiveness had hatched in the pit of her stomach and risen, fluttering, to her heart. She didn't know what to think. Feelings of relief, happiness, shame, fear, and hope collided with one another: relief that the jailbreak had gone well, happiness that her old friend was alive, shame from her conscience that said what she did was wrong, fear of what had happened to him, and hope that Jarohnen had not become what she dreaded. He wasn't raving; he wasn't delirious; he wasn't catatonic. In fact, Jarohnen seemed to have come out of The Kennel unscathed. It was as if he had only left for his "campaigning" and returned, seeking her company once more.

She observed his fingers tucking the cloth just under the carved bridge of the instrument, then slipping underneath the fingerboard. There was a sort of ridiculous envy she held against Jarohnen's wife, ridiculous because Anya had died almost fifty years ago. But still, watching his careful movements, maybe it wasn't so ridiculous after all.

Jarohnen drew the velvet out, gently, and then brushed his fingers across the strings. A harmonious strum, finely in-tine. Satisfied, he tucked his dead wife's violin back into its lined case and slowly lowered the cover shut.

Turning, he drew a chair across from her and sat down. Then he spoke.

"It will take time," he said in French.

Claire raised her head. It was a rare moment when he spoke French to her. He was fluent in five different languages; it came with his training in the Soviet Academy, over half a century ago. "He has to get used to things here, but Comrade Remus will be an invaluable asset to us." His accent, transformed to perfected Parisian, rolled over the words like satin. "Alpha One has great plans for him."

Jarohnen's voice had a hypnotic quality about it; when he spoke, whatever he said, people listened. After a moment, Claire asked, "Should I tell him? He hasn't asked many questions yet… he's only been sleeping…"

Poor Remus. His state pulled at some buried maternal instinct in her heart. Claire thought that Remus had been rescued just in time. Wizard prison sent terrible memories that left her shuddering and cold.

"I'm sure you would keep a good eye on him. At least during your stay. Your brother doesn't suspect–?"

"He's in Luxembourg. He thinks I'm with Caleb."

"And Caleb?"

"Bernard would not ask. I made him promise to keep my privacy by not speaking to Caleb about my visit. He'd assume I made Caleb and his wife take the same oath." Claire always found herself speaking in a more formal tone with Jarohnen than she would with others. She didn't know why; it was as if he commanded respect.

"You are always clever," said Jarohnen with a certain pride in his voice. He paused. "Then I take it that you are happy?"

"I…I… Yes." She couldn't rein in her grin. "I can't even begin –"

"He will be useful," Jarohnen cut her off. "Very useful." Another silent moment. "Much time has passed since we could speak," he said, "like this."

"I know. Years have passed since you have used French with me…"

"It was you who always started in English." A subtle smile crept across his wrinkled face. "When you talk English, you have a little bit of a Cockney accent. Did you know that?"

"You have a worse one. Much worse," she replied with a little laugh. "London gets to all of us."

"_Oui._" He hesitated again. "We have never spoken in this manner since Edinburgh."

Oh, why did he have to mention that? Everything was going so well….

"How long ago was that?" the Russian wolf mused. "Five, six years…?"

Five years since that summer, Claire recounted privately. That time when she saw Toby dressed in that Ministry mail boy uniform, laughing as he placed the cap on his head. He had spread his arms wide. "Like the garb?"

Claire had been at her desk, typing up a report for the Registry. The wizards always wanted to keep a record of the tenants who came and went. It was very fun to lie on those reports. "And what are you doing dressed up like zat?" she had asked while adding the names of twenty-seven imaginary Canadian immigrants to her visitors list.

"Ulysses's taking me on my first assignment." The boy's face had glowed with excitement. "We're heading north." He had leaned forward and put a hand to the side of his mouth. "Co-op." Then, smiling almost giddily, he had added in a grand tone, "I might not be back for a few days. Man the fort while I'm gone." Giving a sly wink, Toby had exited her office.

Five days later, the Edinburgh branch of the Ministry had been plagued with Nundu's Breath. One detective had died; he had been the one who had opened the letter. A state of emergency was then declared at the site; the government office was shut down for the next month for fumigation.

One wolf was caught, but he escaped. No one knew who that wolf had been, and no organization had ever claimed responsibility. But she and Jarohnen knew well enough.

"Are you taking it as a sign that I forgive you?" Claire asked.

"I see nothing for you to forgive," Jarohnen replied. "It was a favour. I do many favours for the Gaczyna pack. They are like kin to me."

And these favours were the reason why the Gaczyna pack had helped the Freedom Hounds to enable Jarohnen's escape. Cells work alone, but they always unite in times of need.

"Even acts like… like...?" She couldn't say the word. The word the newspapers had used. The word that had discredited them and everything that they stood for. The word that had reduced them into nothing but a thing to be hated. She didn't say the word. "Like those which kill?" she said instead.

"The detective was a member of P.A.W.S." Jarohnen rebuked softly. "Death was meant for him; he was the leader of his chapter. Such scum do not even deserve to be born…" Darkness flashed across his eyes when he said that, turning them into blue, daggered ice. Claire moved back, alarmed. But that moment lasted for a fraction of a second, and there was Jarohnen again, merely snapping at her out of irritation. "We have had this quarrel many times," he said. "I thought you understood by now."

They had quarrelled when Toby and Ulysses returned after Edinburgh, a huge argument that made both Jarohnen and his Freedom Hounds quit the Safehouse. They had disappeared for the rest of the summer, but when winter winds blew, they had come back. And every winter they returned. No one spoke of Edinburgh again, except for implied glances between the Safehouse owner and the old Russian.

She regained her bearings, but persisted. "But to threaten the lives of every person in that building?" she questioned. "You know as well as I do that a Nundu's Breath could have swept through the entire city. Millions could have died. An anti-lycanthrope group – is that what Alpha One tells you? Or is that what you tell yourself?"

"Why must you bring this up now?" Jarohnen said. Instantly, he guessed her thoughts. "Comrade Remus will not come to any harm."

"What does the Alpha One want to do with him? Tell me that."

"Why must you ask? He is safe and alive; that is what _you_ wanted, is it not?"

Claire looked away.

"What? You would rather have left him there to die?" Jarohnen demanded. "Did you want him to be murdered by the wizards in the farce they call justice?"

Hesitation.

"_Non…_"

"I know what I know, and it is more than you ever will about this business." His mood calmed down. "Now stop this foolishness. You have him. Do not think about anything else."

Jarohnen stood up as if to leave. Instead, he paused, leaned over and gently took her chin in his hand. Her whole body stiffened. Then, Claire let her eyes close and felt him press his lips gently upon her forehead. When she opened them, he was gone.

_ Cattails blowing in the wind. Swaying, their pulpy heads nudged against each other while in motion. Rustle of the long grass. And the cold night air with the wind and the cattails stirring with the long grass...._

The drip, drip, drip of the underground. Water from the ceiling. It had been raining, and the trickling water came from the puddles from the city streets, far above his head. The air was damp and it felt like a coating of sludge was mixed in the atmosphere, leaving invisible clots he could feel as he breathed. "There will be a man named Dominic," Lupin said. "He'll offer you a drink. Have as much as you want, but remember to tell him that I'm still locked up. It's essential that you do so."

Lottie's face turned spectre-like in the lantern light. She stood on her tiptoes, clinging to the ledge of the little barred horizontal slit in the heavy door. He could see the ends of her fingers, like fat grubs, sticking over the ledge. "An' how came ye knou such things?" came her voice from the other side.

A crooked smile crossed his face. "Let's say that I've been living a double life for so long, it simply comes to me."

_C r e a k…_

The bedsprings beneath him groaned as Lupin shifted his weight on the cot. Where was he? A strange feeling, something like _déjà vu_ whammed him over his skull. He felt like he shouldn't have been there at all, and then, looking about, he realised that was exactly right. Why had he thought he was speaking to Lottie only half a moment ago? No, he wasn't in the dungeon with her; hell, he didn't think he was even in Edinburgh anymore.

He was in the same room he had woken up in before, and Claire had been there. Yes, she was truly there, unlike that strange dream – or was it a vision – of sitting in the dungeon with Lottie Gordon?

So many things puzzled him. Ulysses and Jarohnen had broken him out of jail, he was sure of that now, but how had Jarohnen escaped? Who had that man been hiding outside his dungeon door, the man whom Lupin had called out to for help? The person hadn't been with the other two wolves; Lupin had witnessed the confused looks on their faces. But still, it had all happened so fast. Had that person been a guard? Not likely. Had it actually been Mr. Harper, his barrister, who had hidden rather than revealed himself to mysterious danger? Likely, but then he would have said something to Lupin before the wolves came.

For a moment in his awakening, a brief panic hit his mind about the date. What was the date? March 17th, he knew, was the full moon; so what was today's date? How long had he been drifting in and out of sleep? No more than a day, certainly. When he had been first sent to the dungeon in Edinburgh, he had expressed concern to the guards about the full moon because it was coming up. Then, the realisation struck him that if he was going to stay in this place – wherever he was – for a few more days, he was going to experience the full moon transformation.

Everything was shuffled and disconnected in his mind. And his lapses from consciousness didn't help matters. Lupin sat up and tried to calculate how many times in the past few months he had been knocked out and then revived in a strange place. Quite more often than the average bloke, he was sure.

Was there something decidedly odd about that?

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty."

Lupin was roused from his curious ponderings by the figure standing on the threshold.

"Rise and shine," said Ulysses. "I see the chloroform's effects must have finally worn off." He was dressed in strange clothing with splatters of tan, grey and mustard all over. Over his shoulders was a plain black cloak that trailed to the floor.

"What day is it? Where are we?"

"The date is Monday, March 14th, if you're interested," he replied offhand. Werewolves usually knew a calendar like the back of their hand.

"And the place?"

"Nowhere. Anywhere." Ulysses crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway. "If it makes you feel better, think of the most secluded spot on the continent and that's where you are." He pointed to a similar outfit to his laid out at the foot of the cot. "Get dressed, then, I'll show you around."

Seeing no other option, Lupin reached over for the clothes and Ulysses left the room while he changed. "You'll want this too," he added, handling Lupin an evergreen cloak. Put the hood over your head and lift up the mask."

"A bit secretive, would you say?"

"It's a privilege to wear a green cloak here." Ulysses buttoned up his and lifted his hood. "C'mon."

Finding the request a bit odd, Lupin fitted the mask over the lower part of his face, covered his head, and followed.

The two walked down a long hallway, which was quite plain and cracked, like his room. Other people passed them. Some donned black cloaks, but most had only the standard desert-coloured uniforms. At the end, they came to a wide hall, with many other corridors leading off it. Another large room was connected here, and Lupin saw several long tables set up. Ulysses directed him to a ramp off to the side that led to a heavy bolted door. Pushing it open, they emerged above ground.

Lupin took a good look at where he was. The wide late afternoon sky, blue and cloudless, stretched above him while surrounding him from all sides was rocky brush land. Hills surrounded him from all sides and in the distance he could see a dark mountain ridge.

Ulysses startled walking, explaining more than he had before, "This is one of our outposts on the continent. It was the closest safe place we could take you after the rescue."

"How did that happen actually?" Lupin asked, putting a hand to his head, which was still tender from being rammed into a stone dungeon wall. "Everything is quite muddled in my memory."

"Yeah, sorry for being a little rough," the Texan apologised. "We had to move quickly, because the dungeon was lined with Sensor Spells that would have detected any intruders. We got a little outside help to weaken the spells for only a few minutes."

While they were turning the hill, several small but cracking explosions filled the air. Lupin started and looked around, as the familiar noise triggered a recent memory. "What-?"

"Ah, so the wizard's never heard a gunshot before." Ulysses smiled.

"Actually, I have," Lupin corrected. "Only never so many at once."

"The troops are practicing. You'll get used to it."

_Practicing? _thought Lupin. _Practicing what?_

Ulysses took a seat on the rocky incline under a stunted tree. "We can talk more right here."

Lupin joined him and watched as the older wolf took out a cigarette and lit it with a Zippo lighter. Taking a puff, he said, "Lemme start from the beginnin'. After we got word that the Ministry caught you –"

"I turned myself in," Lupin clarified.

Ulysses paused, but gave no reaction. "Well, we all thought that you'd be put to death by those wizards," he said. "So it didn't take us too long to start hatchin' your escape. But first thin's first, we couldn't do anything 'til we got Jaroh outta The Kennel."

The Magical Creatures prison was located on the same isle as Azkaban, which no one had ever escaped from. Except for Sirius, but then again, he had Animagus ability.

"The Freedom Hounds wracked our brains over it, but it was Claire's idea to use the Polyjuice Potion to make a fake corpse for him. We have to thank you for givin' her the recipe."

He didn't recall telling Claire how to make the Polyjuice Potion! Then Lupin realised that Claire had been in charge of acquiring the ingredients he needed while making the potion to go in disguise to the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament. She must have copied out the information and the instructions while he was making it. A momentary flare of anger that she contributed to his unwarranted escape came to him, then he remembered her state when he saw her last. The wheelchair. His anger died in an instant.

"So, we found an unsuspecting street sleeper to replace Jarohnen with. Remember Garrett Walters?"

"Who?"

"I believe Claire introduced you to him while you were trying to get into the Tournament."

Ah, yes. He was the scruffy Cockney wolf who had been smuggling in spectators for the First Task. The wolf had stolen a Portkey used during the Quidditch World Cup; it was a newspaper, Lupin remembered.

"Well, we used that _Daily Prophet _of his to get there. Geez, an' all the trouble we went through in finding out exactly where the island was in the first place! Three times I think we missed the place completely an' got dumped into the sea…" Ulysses gave a dry laugh as if locating prison islands was a second hobby. "Another thing was findin' his cell. No living animal within miles of that place, but we sent the Gaczyna's flyin' messenger to look for him; I'll introduce you to her when I get the chance. Well, we all worried that they took him underground in one of the cell blocks that didn't have any windows, but we were lucky. It took her three weeks to find which little slit in the stone was his, but when she did, we were shittin' ourselves for joy. Matters didn't take too long to plot the body switch, but by hell, it was harder doin' it under those Dementors' noses. Say, if they have noses at all."

"Body switch?"

"The ol' Monte Cristo deal, with the dead prisoner an' Jaroh coverin' for the body. We shot the man next door with a crossbow, a mercy killin' in my opinion, an' used the bloody arrowhead to get a body sample. That we mixed into the Polyjuice Potion and siphoned it down a tube for Jaroh to take."

The further Ulysses went into detail about the Russian wolf's escape, the more impressed Lupin was with the Freedom Hounds' ability. To think that last year when he first met them, he had only thought they were a group of unsophisticated homeless bums!

"There weren't many wizard guards there – I suspect gettin' assigned to monitor the Dementors is another wizard punishment for Ministry workers – but we impersonated a few while the rest of us waited at sea. I was one of the guards an' was supposed to check the quote, unquote 'body,'" he said this accompanied by finger motions, "before the Dementors carried it out for dumpin. Somethin' went wrong along the way, though, an' they found the real wizards knocked out in their office. Then everythin' went to hell. They knew Jarohnen was still alive an' tried to do that Kiss on him. I took out my gun an' blew out its face, grabbed Jaroh, then made a run for it. My wolves took out their guns an' started firin' on 'em. But bullets don't affect Dementors unless you shoot off their heads. They'd keep on coming after you, fast as wind… if… if you don't…"

Ulysses voice grew sombre. "We lost over half the crew during that mission. Those Dementors are sick, Kissin' whatever person they can get if they're caught free in The Kennel." A look of twisted grief came over his features and he shuddered. "God rest 'em, wherever they are," he whispered.

Lupin stared at the ground. Going to a Dementor-infested island with no magical protection…confronting those abominations with nothing more than Muggle weapons… He looked at the wolf with new admiration.

"Since it wasn't a clean break, do you know whether the Ministry found out?"

"Not to our ears," Ulysses replied dully. "Maybe the Dementors decided not to say anythin' to Fudge, since they got the body count to satisfy 'em… I tell you, those Dementors are more in charge of themselves than any ol' wizard."

A wolf in black stopped by them and whispered to Ulysses, _"Mercury está aquí."_

_"Tráigamela,"_ he said in return. The wolf nodded and scampered off.

A swift wind blew and Ulysses glanced up, shading his eyes. "Here she comes," he said.

Lupin followed his gaze but saw nothing. Suddenly, however, a person appeared hovering overhead, arms extended, the inside of the Invisibility Cloak flapping behind her. A short staff with a pair of flapping translucent wings was tucked in one gloved hand, and a satchel hung over one shoulder. Despite the angelic appearance, what struck Lupin most prominently was the semi-automatic rifle slung across the person's chest.

This thin wisp of a being, more fairy than werewolf, settled on the ground and took off the hat and goggles. Lupin was surprised to see a young girl's face staring right back at him.

"This is Mercury, the Gaczyna's messenger," Ulysses introduced, handing her a package. He gave her an order Lupin didn't recognise – was it in Spanish? –, and Mercury nodded wordlessly, tucked the package into her satchel, pulled down her goggles again, then leaped over their heads. The diaphanous wings on her boots fluttered madly like a Snitch's, and in a heartbeat she was off, flying over their heads, and soon vanished as the cape settled over her again. They could hear the gunfire spring up again with newfound fervour.

Ulysses finished his cigarette and let it hang from his fingers. "Your rescue was much easier. It's like the Ministry doesn't care for prisoners kept in their extended branches." He extinguished it in the dirt and got up. "Night's coming. Better get inside for food."

They came from all different directions: from the high mountains and the valleys, from inside the hills, from the sky even, as the girl solider Mercury swooped down on her winged boots, her semi-automatic cradled in her arms, her load gone. They all filed in as quiet as death and each descended into the hillside.

Lupin went in last and was ushered by Ulysses to a large high-walled room with two long tables made of saw boards set out in the middle. Smokeless witches' fire, like the same ones which burned at Nemesis Courthouse, glowed in holders along the bare, whitewashed walls. At the far end of the room was a third table set perpendicular to the other two; at this table sat two other hooded wolves. Ulysses took Lupin by the arm, but he didn't need to push his way through the crowd. The beings parted, like formless shades, and they moved past them to the table.

The larger wolf stood up at their approach and presented his bare arms raised from their heavy sleeves. Ulysses grabbed both hands in his own and together, they swung their arms down and gave a grunt. It seemed to be a greeting of some sort. Ulysses gestured to Lupin and warily, he took hold of the other wolf's upraised hands. Instantly, his arms were yanked downwards, throwing him off-balance. He gained his footing and bit his lip as he felt his arm muscles being pulled out of shape. The other wolf let go, gave a grunt, and Lupin gave a somewhat weaker noise of his own.

"Lupin, meet A-1," said Ulysses, once their "werewolf handshake" was finished. "A-1 is the head of this group."

Lupin sat down in his seat at the table and whispered out of the side of his mouth, "A-1? Has a penchant for steak sauce, does he?"

"Alpha One," Ulysses clarified. "And if I were you, I wouldn't mention that comment ever again."

The pack leader waited until everyone was settled down. "Welcome, comrades," he boomed in an iron-bellied voice, weighed down further by a Spanish accent. "Tonight we are honoured to have several fellow wolves with us. They have escaped from the wizard oppression across the Channel. Let us revive their strength as our war rages across the ocean."

Fists pounded on tables as several members cried, "Woof! Woof!" from their seats in approval. Startled by the sound, Lupin then let his eyes pass over the crowd. Lupin recognised some of the wandering Freedom Hounds who had stayed at Claire's Safehouse sitting with their foreign allies. He noticed that only Dominic, Toby, Antonia, and Harriet were present. He wondered where the rest were: still in England or elsewhere? His stomach turned with the thought that they were beyond elsewhere, victims to Dementors.

"Now, here speaks our brethren's leader, the great traveller, Alpha Fifty-Six!"

Ulysses got up with a slight wave of his hand. For the first time it struck Lupin that Ulysses was in league with these wolves, or moreover, that like the title "Alpha Fifty-Six," the name "Ulysses" could be masking another identity. This lax gentlewolf with the Texan drawl was something else entirely from what Lupin had first thought when he met him in London.

"My fellow comrades!" he greeted, to much applause. "Well, I'm not the best speaker, and I hate talkin' for long. Still, I'd like to express our pack's deepest gratitude for all the help Alpha One and your pack has provided to the Freedom Hounds, not only in the last few months, but numerous times in the past. It's not everyday that a pack of your status is willin' to work so many favours to a small recruitin' cell, but I'm proud of the camaraderie between us. I know that there're some young wolves I have here willin' to join your ranks," he extended a hand to the young foursome sitting in the crowd, "and I only hope that my teachin's have been enough to guide 'em this far!"

"These young ones will commence training as soon as possible," the Gaczyna leader informed the crowd. "We shall embrace their fellowship with open arms."

Another round of barking ensued, and Alpha One paused for a minute or two until it passed. Then, he spoke once more. "Before the meal is served, I have one more guest."

To the right of A-1, the other wolf lowered his hood. His old eyes surveyed the group, as the Gaczyna leader continued, "It is my pleasure to introduce a very, very old friend and the co-founder of this pack, along with many others. As you may have heard, he had recently had escaped the wizard's werewolf prison The Kennel and has come to us a new wolf with a new vision. May I present Jarohnen Ianikit!"

A howl, more unsettling than the barking, filled the room as Jarohnen stood up. With a wave of a wrinkled hand they were silenced.

Seconds ticked away in silence as they waited for him to speak.

"They thought they could kill me," he began softly. "They thought that they could imprison me in my own mind. My wolves, I knew, my faithful comrades would not abandon me."

One or two wolves started to clap, but one look from Alpha One killed the attempt with one glance.

"The bravest of us has been taken by the lowest of wizard minions." A pause. "But their duty to our cause was unquestionable. My debt to those wolves who… died can never be repaid. So my dedication returns to ya, my wolves, who are willing to sacrifice so much for our people."

Then applause was allowed. It lasted for five minutes straight, and Lupin joined in, his expression solemn. Anyone who fought a Dementor and lost, no matter who he was, deserved at least that.

"There was a common saying among the old clans where I come from," Jarohnen continued when they clapping had stopped, "'Вы не должны бояться лающего волка, но Вы должны бояться тихого волка.' It means, 'You needn't be afraid of a barkin' wolf, but you should be afraid of a silent one.' We are the silent wolves of the world. The wizards believe this is because they have muted our voices, but that is not true. Bursting in their arrogance, they fail to see our quiet resistance. Look around, my comrades. We may be silent, but we have not been muted."

Lupin found it amazing how powerful Jarohnen's voice was. He had not raised it even once, yet it drove the wolves mad. As he listened, he thought of the only other person with such oratorical skills, his mentor and headmaster Albus Dumbledore. "Soon I have a feeling that we shall soon rise again. Our packs, united, shall bring down justice for our people and destroy our oppressors. Our time is coming, comrades. All we need is to wait for the opportunity to cast away our chains and fight the final revolution."

Around him, wolves howled and barked and cheered, throwing their fists into the air. Jarohnen surveyed the room with hard, level eyes before taking his seat again. Then, filled bowls were passed out for the meal as large plates of bread and drink were set out on the tables.

Once served, Lupin looked at his bowl in surprise. It contained the same simple stew Claire had cooked up for him and Mary their first night in her Safehouse. With a queasy feeling, he put his spoon down again. He felt uncomfortable in general after listening to those portentous speeches, and the thought of other wolves watching him eat made him lose his appetite.

"Where… where did all the money come from?" he asked. "To build this?"

"Here and there." Ulysses replied vaguely. He bit into a chunk of bread.

"Where's Claire?"

"Aw, she's not the type to be too social. Takes her meals in her room. Why?" He gave Lupin a sideways glance. "Hoping to meet her here?"

Lupin didn't answer. Instead, after a few minutes, he posed another question. "Ulysses, do you know what happened to her?"

"Whaddaya mean?" he asked, mouth full.

"Why is she in a wheelchair?"

"Ah, that." He swallowed. "Well, I'm not the one for you to ask. If you really want to know somethin', try Jaroh."

"Why him?"

Ulysses looked at him dubiously. "She didn't even mention that to you?" He frowned. "Because he was there when it happened."

The ending of the meal was signalled by a tall wolf in dark green blowing a whistle. Then, like an automated machine, the wolves began passing their bowls down the tables and stacking them in tall piles. Some wolves, who must have been on kitchen duty, carried the stacked bowls and piles of spoons to be washed while the rest filed out in an orderly fashion and separated down the halls. Lupin wondered what those wolves did after supper, but didn't really want to know.

Alpha One had left as soon as the whistle sounded, but Jarohnen remained, sipping from a chipped mug.

"Hello Jarohnen."

"Ah, Comrade Remus. Let me take a good look at ya. Didn't get a good chance to beforehand, for obvious reasons." Jarohnen grabbed his shoulders and studied him up and down as if he was a long-lost relation. "Gettin' thinner, I see. Your hair's dyed too. An awful colour."

"It'll grow out." Lupin pulled his seat over, not wanting to use the Gaczyna leader's chair. "Do you know what happened?"

"What d'ya mean by that?"

"To Claire. Ulysses said you knew better than anyone else."

"Did she tell ya anythin'?"

Lupin hesitated. "I haven't asked her."

"Then why are ya askin' me?"

"Because… would she tell me if I asked?"

Jarohnen gave him a hard look, measuring him up. "She never told anyone else. She never said a single word to any soul except me." The light glinted in the fractured blue in his eyes. "Yes," he said softly, as if speaking to himself, "ya have a right to know. More than anyone else."

Then, in a louder voice: "Ya know about the Registry wizards who went after ya and your pup?"

"Yes."

"The man who led the investigation was a detective by the name of Agent Roger Parsons. He was the one who conducted the Safehouse sweep last November."

Lupin nodded. He recalled hiding up in the attic with Mary as the crashes went on below. Afterward, the building had been in shambles, but he had helped restore it with his magic. Parsons called Comrade Claire in for questioning after your escape. While she was drugged with the Veritaserum, he tried to rape her."

"What?" He was so blunt about it. "Rape?"

"He assaulted her," Jarohnen spat, "in the underhanded way wizards do."

By now, Lupin had grown used to him being excluded from the Russian wolf's insults. "Is that how –?"

"No. It was before she was thrown in the dungeon, with me. I… I don't recall much during from then…" He shook his head. "But what I do recall is 'em talkin' when he came to fetch us the Wolfsbane Potion. He touched her before, and she wouldn't let him near her. That pervert, he claimed that he had to stay until she drank. Claire would have sooner dumped the goblet over his head than let him give it to her. 'Ya will wait all night,' she said, or something to that effect.

"So then, Parsons asked for the guards to shut the cell. He said he wanted to speak with her privately. Desire, that's the word he used: 'I _desire_ a word with her.' In that slimy voice. And the wizards, those goons let him." He pounded his cane against the floor. "_They let him be alone with her again, the bastards!_" he hissed through gritted teeth.

"Then…" Lupin put his head in his hands. He didn't want to listen. He had heard enough.

Jarohnen whole face turned grave. "Whatever happened, she couldn't scream," he whispered dryly. "The whole dungeon was dead silent. Too quiet. Like the wizards had magicked the silence, so they could say they heard nothin'."

No response came from the listener. Instead, Lupin straightened up and sat stiffly, as if forcing himself to hear it all.

"He ran away screaming, though, when the moon came up. She must have tried to bite and cause some permanent damage." He chuckled dryly. "But they locked her up without her taking that potion, so her LOCD kicked in and her crazy wolf came out. The beast hurled itself against the stone walls, trying to get out. My wolf, eh, he was rightfully upset over that. Wanted to… to rip out her throat if only to stop her barking…" Jarohnen stopped and a misty look came over his eyes, as if reliving the night in his mind. He blinked once, snapped out of his reverie, and continued.

"In the morning there was blood. Everywhere. Ya could smell it dripping from the walls. And I saw 'em take her out, all battered and bruised up. Personally," he whispered, lowering his head, "I think she wanted to kill herself that night, and her wolf knew that. I know my wolf did.

"Comrade Claire does not talk about it. People simply know not to bring it up, when they look at her. There are times, though, if she sees the question in your face, she will say," Jarohnen said gruffly, imitating her manner, "'It is not your fault! This is my mistake!' 'All right,' we say. 'Of course.' And we leave it at that."

Jarohnen's voice hushed again. "But it's hard to agree with her, when we all know the truth. The truth she refuses to speak of, but that trails behind her like a ghost demandin' vengeance. But that is her way, and we respect that."

A pause.

"Do you respect that, comrade? What she has done?"

If Lupin had had even the smallest sneaking suspicion that this was all staged, he would have shouted, enraged. But the way he spoke, and yes, the way they all knew…! He gripped the back of his chair, wanting something to hold onto. Jarohnen waited with cold eyes until the initial horror passed and the depth of his words sank in.

"Her…? Why would she…?"

"She never says. I would not be surprised, though, if ya asked her, she'd tell ya why. She would do anything for Remus Lupin."

Falling back into the chair, a blank mask came over his face, as if it had stopped reacting to the outside world. It wasn't her "mistake" that had forced her into a wheelchair. It was his.

Lupin could only imagine. While he and Mary ran off into hiding, where had she been? He saw her locked into that pit of darkness he had been in just a day before. Being interrogated by faceless men. Screaming in a soundproof interrogation room.

And who was this Agent Roger Parsons, a man he never seen in this life but who had traumatized this person he… he had concern for…? Strangers come to destroy your life; strangers come to violate the people you care about! Lupin couldn't even picture the wizard's face, and that made him all the more furious.

Suddenly, he shot up from his seat and slammed his fist into the back of the chair, cursing.

Jarohnen didn't even flinch. "She's in her room, if ya want to talk," was all he said. If Lupin had caught his gaze at that moment, he would have seen something cunning and black. Lupin didn't, though, and in a moment Jarohnen stood up and pointed to which hallway she resided in.

Her door was ajar when he came to it. Looking in, he saw Claire staring at the window that was placed on ground level, staring with the solitude of a prisoner. Lupin knelt next to her, silently, and took her hand in his own. She turned her head, and only saw pity. Claire pushed him away; Lupin grabbed her wrist, but then let go. The quiet thickened into a heavy uneasiness as he watched her exit in her wheelchair. When she left, he raised his hand to his face. A whiff of faint lavender touched his nose.

Chapter 30

During the days that followed, the truth of his location sank in bit by bit. At dawn, Lupin woke to hear boots clumping in the halls. Outside, young wolves trained in hand-to-hand combat in dusty canvas tents, and the twilight was marked with the piercing stabs of ammunition, as if the stars appeared nightly with the lock of a loaded cartridge and the bang of a bullet.

He felt that he was witnessing history, like a villager watching the Goblin Rebellion of 1624 or the Greeks preparing the Wooden Horse. There was something simmering in the souls of these young wolves, as if they were all volcanoes being trained to explode. Lupin was trapped in this Ring of Fire and he knew one misstep could trigger an eruption that could spread across the continent. Or maybe the eruption was already in process, with the magma rising into the wolves' eyes, making them smoulder with hate.

Lupin had known from the beginning that there was something unquestionably dark about this place. He had put his finger on exactly what this camp was and what it did, and it had left him feeling that they were very wrong and at the same time… right. In their own twisted view, he could empathise with their cause. These ambiguous feelings only left feeling him lost and adrift. So he ignored what he could not stop. His eyes passed over what he could not change because it was too large for him to change. As he dealt with a society who shunned his werewolf nature, Lupin dealt with these lycanthrope fighters with tolerance, if not complete avoidance. He didn't know how else to react.

More often than not, Lupin would opt to spend time with Claire, the closest thing to normalcy in this secret, militant world. Sometimes they would leave together and move among the low brush land. Side by side, their hands remained inches away from each other. They did not hold hands, however; she pushed herself along, refusing to have someone else handle her chair.

Lupin rarely saw any of the other camp occupants during this time, but, every hour or so, gunfire would crack in the distance. And always, by nightfall, the wolves would return, and the camp would come back to life.

They wandered up along the scraggly hills. Claire's chair hindered her from crossing heavy brush; they kept to the clear dirt trails through the land. Once, they stopped, awed, as a lone raptor circled the sky, and then, swiftly, barrelled heedlessly toward the earth with an earth-shaking cry to sweep up its prey. Often, they stopped to watch passing clouds. They rarely talked while moving; whenever Claire opened her mouth to speak, she would suddenly turn away, that familiar blush creeping up her cheeks. Lupin never spoke.

Lupin soon remembered to bring a blanket and a few pillows that he tied up in a loose pack to carry on his back. They would travel far, until the hills became an oil painting landscape, and Lupin would stop, loosen his pack and lay the blankets and pillows on the ground.

"With your permission," he would whisper, gently, because he never knew when Claire wanted to be touched or didn't want to be touched and he was always feared that she would break down.

And if she wanted to, she would reach for his hand, as if he was a servant helping her off a carriage. Then, Lupin would slip her into his arms, lift her from the chair and place her on the makeshift layout. He would sit on the blanket beside her, yet always separate. Each would be alone, but together.

Sometimes, there would be a quiet desperation in her eyes, and she would take his hand before the camp boundaries had been crossed. "Get me out." Her voice would tremble with urgency. "Get me out."

Lupin didn't know whether she meant get her out of the camp or out of her chair or out of something he didn't know about, but when she said that, he would walk faster, knowing that she would catch up easily. They would make their way past the intelligence hill and make their place only a few yards away, with the tents still close enough to see their dusty covers stir in the heated wind. Lupin would catch the urgent feeling in her voice and move quickly, whipping out the sheets.

Her fingers would dig into his neck as he lifted her up and out to freedom. His nose would bury itself in her hair – sweet lavender. Vulnerable, her legs limp as jellyfish tentacles, Claire would wait until he had settled down beside her before the conversation began.

Something between them would relax once they had settled down. Each others' presence mattered so much, and, Lupin realised, he depended on it. When he was with her, he knew that she was real. He needed Claire to be real, even with her broken body and broken smile. He needed something to be real because that was what he had been looking for all along. Mary had been real to him, very real, and now Claire was transforming into something wildly, uncontrollably real to him too.

When they did talk, it was about everything. Lupin, who withheld his thoughts and true emotions from everyone at the camp, was befuddled and secretly upset by Claire's sudden emotional outpouring. It didn't feel right because Sirius had done the same thing in his own way, when they had spent time together, and Lupin couldn't respond in the same free way. Seeing her sitting there, talking softly about how stupid and useless she was feeling, made him only think about Sirius more, and how he would be repeating history if he let her talk while he remained silent. And so, with a feeling of horrible vulnerability, he spoke about all the things that happened to him since they had parted. When he finished talking about Sirius and Edinburgh and the night workers at the Ministry and the Ashwinder bite, he suddenly felt that a proper emotional_ quid pro quo _had taken place, and he felt comfortable with her again.

One time, while watching the clouds pass, Claire plucked one of the tiny white flowers that grew in sporadic patches along the landscape among the scrub brush and the skinny trees.

" 'Ave you ever 'eard of ze Petit Prince?" she inquired suddenly. Lupin, used to her random ponderings, shook his head.

"Well, 'e was a little boy who lived on a very small planet, smaller zan a 'ouse," she explained. " 'E 'ad zis little flower, who adored him very much. But 'e did not understand 'er love nor 'is own, actually, and 'e left ze planet to explore ze universe."

"A planet as small as a house? Flowers and boys in love? Who could think of such a tale?"

"Muggles." Claire shrugged. The next quarter hour was spent explaining the plot of the story: how the Petit Prince eventually landed on Earth and met a pilot who crashed his aeroplane, and how the pilot drew him a sheep to take back home with him. The sheep had no muzzle, and after the Petit Prince left, the pilot had always worried about whether the sheep had accidentally eaten the flower or not.

Many of their hours were spent like this, pondering about the light, simple issues that floated in and out of their minds. It was lazy conversation for people to entertain themselves with when spending stolen time together.

"These little flowers always remind me of ze Petit Prince's rose," she summed up. "Zese is far from a rose of course, but still, she was such a fragile thing, it always reminds me…" Claire let the thought hang in the air for a moment, and then she turned to him.

"_Oui_ _ou_ _non_, did ze sheep eat ze flower?" she dangled the tiny flower between her thumb and forefinger.

"I say _non_," Lupin replied, playfully pushing her wrist away.

"I say _oui_." Claire tucked the pale blossom behind one ear.

"Now really?" he replied, arching an eyebrow disapprovingly.

"If ze flower 'ad not died before ze Prince returned," she added. "Or better yet, ze sheep could 'ave jumped out of 'is pocket as soon as zey returned and – chomp!" She snapped her finger. "A trip to ze stars stirs one's appetite."

"My, don't you see the glass as half-empty?" He deftly plucked the slight flower from her ear and rolled the stem between his fingers.

"And why not?" she replied.

"But the flower has thorns. Thorns are a heavy defence mechanism."

"Zey are nonsense, one of God's cruel jokes."

"Cruel jokes?" Lupin raised an eyebrow.

"You sound surprised."

He said, "Care to defend yourself on that one?"

"As ze book says, sheep 'ave been eating flowers for millions of years, and still flowers 'ave been growing thorns for just as long. What is ze importance of flowers wiz thorns? What is ze importance of war, or disease, or cruelty or evil? It is all a joke and ze only one who is laughing," she rolled her eyes upward, "is sitting up zair. If anyone is laughing at all."

"And what of everything else? Like the sea and stars and not just," he brushed the flower at the tip her nose, "little flowers?"

"Zey die," Claire said simply. "Or dry up, or fade away. Nothing can last forever. Zat is another joke. Oh, what a prankster you are!" she shouted to the sky.

"I sometimes think so too," said Lupin.

Claire caught the sadness in his voice. "Let us stop zis silly talk. Little flowers are little flowers, after all. Look," she grabbed his hand, "Ze sun is starting to set. 'Ow beautiful it is."

_How true._ They watched the sun dip toward the horizon, bleeding an orange-gold glow in its wake. _Mary would never think the flower was eaten,_ he thought wistfully.

She took his arm and held it close. The side of her head rested against his shoulder. He turned his head the other way. "We have to go back," he said quickly.

She bowed her head. "It is becoming late," she murmured, then straightened up. "_Allons-y_."

Claire was becoming real. But not real enough.

Lupin didn't mention the upcoming full moon to anyone else at the camp, but he could feel the rising emotion as the day drew near. When it came, the camp was in more of a fervour than before, perhaps because the wolves felt the moon pulling at their blood like the tide. Claire was noticeably absent that day, and so Lupin remained in his room. Later, after supper, he asked Ulysses, who seemed to be everywhere at the camp, about her. "She's just being takin' care of," Ulysses told him confidently.

"But can I see her?" Lupin asked. "How does she get by during the transformation?"

The American wolf paused. "I'm not sure if she'd like you to see her in this state," he said slowly. The evening was coming soon, and all of the wolves had gone underground earlier that night for their meal. Now, for some strange reason, they were heading back out. A little warning bell went off in the back of Lupin's mind. The camp didn't lock itself up during the full moon? Were all of these werewolves going to remain _outside _for the transformation?

Lupin nodded. "I understand then," he answered, trying to keep the worry out of his voice.

Ulysses scratched his beard in thought. "I could take you to see her for a bit," he decided, "before you come out with us."

"So we are going out?" Lupin pressed his lips together in slight disapproval, but quickly turned so the other wolf couldn't see his expression.

"We've always went out," Ulysses said in a matter-of-fact tone. "What'd you think we did: chain ourselves up in cages?" He laughed as if that was the most far-fetched ideas he had ever heard.

"We're not in danger of any human settlements, I presume?" Lupin inquired.

"This camp isn't Nowhere-Anywhere for nothin'. C'mon, I'll show you where Claire is."

At one side of the mess hall was a set of double doors, and these led to a dirt slope deeper underground. A couple of hanging lanterns were nailed to the wall, and Ulysses took one as he walked by. There were makeshift wooden railings along the side, and Lupin took hold of them on either side on his way down. The unfinished quality of this level made him wonder if it was made in haste, as if specially prepared for a last-minute occasion, or if it was in such a shoddy condition because it wasn't put to much use. As they walked, bits of dirt fell on their heads. Far above, Lupin could hear other wolves barking outside in unison. The muffled sound made his blood turn chill.

"What are they doing?" he muttered to himself.

Ulysses assumed the question was addressed to him. "Getting ready for the transformation," he answered. Then, he called out into the darkness, "Hey, Claire, y'down there?"

Lupin froze, suddenly embarrassed to be caught by her. He paused suddenly, and slid down the slope because of the momentum.

The slope wasn't as deep as he thought, and they descend barely ten metres vertically when they reached the base. All was dark and above, Lupin saw several tunnels above his head that opened up to the night sky. All where positioned ground level, and faced the direction of the moonrise.

"Claire?" Ulysses called again.

Lupin saw two doors, made of wood. From one of them, he heard someone groaning. Upon hearing that noise, he too said, "Claire?"

Her reply came from the second door. "What are you doing 'ere?" she said sharply. "Ulysses, why did you-"

"He asked," her friend replied simply.

The person in the other door continued to groan. Ulysses raised his lantern and peered through a small window that was placed at eye-level. "He's going to be scared shitless tonight," he commented. "Why we couldn't bring him outside to tear into pieces I don't know…"

"Ze man won't stop muttering," Claire commented from her locked door. "Who is 'e anyway?"

"You'll find out soon enough," Ulysses moved away from the first door.

Lupin, rooted at the base of the slope the entire time, couldn't explain why he didn't want to come forward. He did want to see where Claire was, after all. Knowing that she was going to be kept here in the dark because of her LOCD made him feel wretched. Suddenly, he got the idea that he should spend the night with her too, and was about to voice this thought when Claire spoke to him again.

"Why did you come?" she repeated.

Lupin moved toward the door up to the small crack and looked in.

The cell she was in was brightly lit with a pair of lamps over the door. Claire sat, without her brace, on the ground, dressed in the same fatigues he usually saw her dressed in around camp. Her hair was undone, and it flowed down her back in small waves.

She wouldn't make eye contact with him. "You should 'ave Ulysses take you upstairs to join ze ozzars," she said gruffly.

"Will you be all right?" He couldn't take his eyes away from her.

"We all survive in our own little ways." Claire traced the dirt on the floor. "Please, let me be."

"Well…" Awkwardness came to him, and Lupin felt like he should say something meaningful to her then, something to get her through the night. "Good luck," he said, somewhat uncertainly, cursing himself that he couldn't think of anything better.

Claire's head shot up and he caught a spark go off in those grey eyes. "I don't need your well-wishes," she answered in an even rougher tone. Then, her expression softened and she bowed her head down again quickly. He pushed her hair back behind her ears and added, "I'll be fine."

He moved away from the door, then heard some shuffling noises. Returning to the window, he jumped back, startled, to see her eyes peering through.

"How-?"

"I am not completely 'elpless," she hissed.

"Are you…?"

"I'm 'olding myself up using ze sides of ze door," she answered hastily. The exertion made her voice quiver. For a few moments, their gazes locked upon each other, before Claire dropped from his view. She collapsed on the other side, and Lupin put his fingers through the opening hastily in reaction as if trying to grab her before she fell. He drew away just as quickly, embarrassed again at such a spontaneous, illogical action. Heavy gasping sounds were heard on the other side of the door.

"Claire-?"

"Go," she panted. More shuffling sounds. "It's almost time."

Ulysses put his hand on Lupin's shoulder and tilted his head toward the exit. Lupin backed away, slowly, then turned and walked briskly up the slope.

The man's groans only became louder as they departed.

Above ground, Lupin saw the fifty or so wolves were divided into smaller units. They were talking among themselves. The rest of the Freedom Hounds were off by themselves and Ulysses and Lupin joined them.

Toby was squatting on back on his legs with his arms stretched out before him – a wolf position. Upon seeing them, he bounded to his feet and went over to Lupin with an excited air.

"Hey," he greeting casually. "Are you wolves staying with us for the night?"

Dominic scoffed from his cross-legged position on the ground. "He just wants to see whether wizards transform differently," he said to Lupin in a belittling tone. "Like with pink poofy smoke or-"

"Shut it!" Toby pushed him over.

"Heh. You shut it."

"Oh yeah!"

"Yeah!"

The two wolves began scuffling on the ground.

Ulysses cleared his throat, and both stopped, realising that they were fighting in the presence of a pack leader and a respected wizarding werewolf. Toby stared at the ground and Dominic turned around toward Antonia, who was looking rather pensive. She faced the direction of the moonrise. Her face, usually jovial, had a stark pale cast tonight.

"How are you copin'?" Ulysses asked gently.

"I will be fine as soon as the moonlight comes," she replied, her Spanish accent turning her voice into silk.

Lupin sat down beside Dominic. The fair-haired wolf lit up a cigarette and took a long drag. "She's thinking of the others," he whispered to Lupin, smoke drifting out of his nose.

"The ones that…."

"Yeah," Dominic verified. "Harriet and Margie, they both used to be real close with her. And Theo," he clicked his tongue, "you know. I think they mated once, long time ago."

"How did you three survive the Dementors?"

"Us lucky bastards," Dominic replied bitterly. "We weren't posing as guards; we stayed on the boat." Then, in a louder voice, he said, "Toby, here," and tossed his cigarette to the teenager. Toby grabbed it and took a couple puffs, then handed it to Ulysses. The American wolf took a couple of short drags before holding the cigarette out to Antonia. She offered it to Lupin afterwards, but he refused. The four wolves passed it between them in a peace pipe fashion; a little personal tradition before the full moon, Lupin supposed. By the time they were finished, the moon was just beginning to rise.

Transformation was a very personal thing for Lupin. This was probably because he always had to transform alone; the only exceptions to the rule were with Mary. Now to engage in a massive transformation with many others was equivalent to coming to a public bathhouse for the first time. He looked apprehensively around him. The smaller packs kept to themselves. Then, as the moon grew higher, the screaming began. Wolves began falling over, clutching themselves. Lupin braced himself of the incoming pain and realised abruptly that many wolves weren't screaming nonsense; they were praying.

"Here we go," Dominic muttered darkly, crushing the cigarette butt between his fingers.

Then, it began.

His skin started to itch – fur sprouted in patched over his body – his tailbone shot out – muscles grew—

The Freedom Hounds around him were oddly silent. Ulysses had curled into a ball and was gnawing his arm with his teeth; Lupin saw blood. Dominic spat a million curses under his breath as if he were reciting the alphabet; Antonia lay eerily still, except for almost epileptic shaking. But Toby, oh the young wolf, he was the most fascinating of all –

Lupin's ears' moved back along his head – his knees cracked, changing position, his face contorted as his nose stretched and changed – hands morphed into claws and teeth into fearsome, long jaws – and his eyes, his eyes focussed on the boy reciting –

"This is the gift He hath given," Toby rasped as he lost his human voice. His eyes were clenched tight; he rocked back and forth in pain. "We are His chosen ones –" One wild jerk, and his head snapped back, eyes rolling, tongue hanging.

_No!_ Lupin yelled silently.

Oddly enough, Antonia wrapped her arms around Toby from behind and held him to her chest. "Praise Him who blesses us with the powers of the beast," she muttered, then let go.

_A curse!_ His human mind protested. _It's a curse, it's a curse; all be dam-_

The air ripped to pieces with howling.

Amazingly, there was no chaos. The camp teemed with life of a different kind that night. Packs assembled themselves and went off to hunt. Game was caught and killed. Whenever one pack confronted another over a jackrabbit or young deer, the matter was settled between the leaders. These were also the ones who wore black cloaks during the rest of the month. The wolves fought jaw-to-jaw, rolling, biting, snapping, until one bested the other in strength. Then the meat was taken, and the packs departed. True wolf life held no anger or ruthlessness, only the natural cycle of life that few people could understand.

Several interesting wolves were seen that night. Many were scraggly Spanish half-breeds who gathered here over the years. One was a giant Siberian timber wolf, whose coat, though ragged, was thick and pure white. He walked with a great hunch on his shoulders and his two front fangs were missing. Then there was the smaller, streamlined American grey, who led a small pack: a chestnut Spanish bitch, a copper youngster, and a dun-coloured male.

Of all the wolves there, only two did not belong to a pack. A lone brown and grey hunter tried to run off into the scrublands, but was cornered and watched by American grey. The other one, the crazed beast, was locked underground. An injured man locked up next door soiled himself in fear and prayed to whatever gods he still believed him.

_Oh Jesus, _the man prayed, _please save me, please save me, I'll do anything, just don't let the wolves get me, I promise, I'll do anything, just don't let them break down the door, don't let them bite me, Oh Jesus Christ, please give me my wand, I'll do anything, please, Oh Christ please help me get my wand back…_

Thus, the full moon passed. Lupin opened his eyes the next day with the Freedom Hounds surrounding him, already awake. Toby was laying down propped inches away from his face with a disappointed look in his honey eyes.

"So there isn't any poofy smoke, is there?" he asked.

There was little else for him to do at the camp, Lupin discovered. When Claire disappeared (which occurred on occasion, though she would avoid the question of her whereabouts when he asked her about them), Lupin stayed in his room. Though it had been uncomfortably barren when he had initially arrived, at the end of the first day he had discovered a pile of dusty, paperback books that seemed to have been printed by small, independent publishers. Their titles were long-winded and political such as _Wizard Oppression of Other Magical Races Throughout History_, or _"They Promised Us a Land of Our Own": How the American MGA Tricked Native Wolves into Containment Camps._ Lupin found that reading too much of only one book could stir even the blood of a sloth into active rebellion.

Toby caught Lupin scanning a map of the Alaskan Concentration Zone from one of these books when he stopped by his room. The young wolf opened the door and poked his head in; it seemed that complete privacy was not guaranteed. Lupin had checked his door long ago and had seen that there were locks on the outside of it, not the inside.

"The highest werewolf population in the world," he commented as Lupin looked up. "America was full of wolves, until the European wizards kicked them all out."

"Are these your required reading here?" Lupin asked, closing the book.

"It's our past," Toby replied.

"Obsessing over imprisonment and injustice," Lupin murmured. "It makes being a werewolf a psychosis."

"It's the truth." Toby said seriously. He sat down on the bed. "All wolves should know it."

Lupin didn't comment. Instead, he took note of Toby's uniform. "Been busy?"

"A little," Toby replied vaguely. "But I'm taking off on my free time and I thought I might stop by to see what you were up to."

Lupin tilted his head to the side and commented, "I dreamt of you once."

Toby raised an eyebrow. "Is that a good thing?"

"It was a long time ago. You were painting the London Safehouse white." To cover up its true colours. Giving a shrug, he added, "I didn't think much of it at the time."

A sudden thought came to the younger wolf. "Hey, you want to come out with me?"

"Where to and whatever for?"

"Combat practice." A crooked grin spread across his face. "Are you interested?"

His offer made Lupin feel more divided. Should he accept as if interested or stay distant? But the fact was that Lupin was intrigued about this "practice." He wondered whether that was a preference toward agreement with this camp. "I'm perfectly fine right here," he declined mildly. "I'm planning to meet up with Claire later."

"It won't take long." The wolf lifted his eyebrows questioningly. "You're not afraid of a bit of sparring, are you?"

"Sparring? As in hand-to-hand fighting?" Even the thought made Lupin chuckle. "What barbaric Muggle practice is that?"

"One used when you don't have a wand to defend yourself." He pulled on Lupin's arm. "C'mon, lemme show you some."

"Fighting?" Not believing that he could be pressured by an eighteen-year old in any other circumstance, Lupin rose to his feet. "Then show away."

"All right!" Beaming like a pup with a new playmate, Toby led him through the underground passageways until they came to a large, open room. Hanging light bulbs provided the only light to the floor, and the shadows hugged the walls. Heavy black rubber mats covered the floor, and a few dummies were pushed into a corner. The room itself wasn't empty: a thin wolf and his older, chestnut-haired partner were engaged in combat when they entered. Dominic and Antonia, two recruits from the Freedom Hounds.

Antonia threw a high kick towards Dominic's head. Immediately, he grabbed her foot and turned to them. "Hey," he started, then dropped his partner's foot, letting her fall, and straightened up upon seeing Lupin. "Toby. Lupin."

"Mind if we come in?" Toby asked, helping a slightly off-put Antonia up from the floor.

"Not at all," she said, glaring at Dominic, who made his way over to a nearby side table and took up an open canteen.

Toby explained, "I want to show him some of the stuff we can do."

"We're far from being black belts, but we're better than most." Dominic took a swing from his canteen as Lupin puzzled over what the term "black belt" meant. "Does Ulysses know you two are here?"

"We're big wolves now," Toby answered. "We can take care of ourselves."

"Stop being a git." Dominic leaned in close and whispered something to him in a concerned voice. Lupin watched out of the corner of his eye while Antonia quickly replied, "It's nothing. You're new here and Ulysses wants to keep an eye out."

"What for? It's not as if I'll disappear or anything," Lupin said, thinking of the locks outside his door.

She laughed. "You are our guest of honour. No one wants to let you out of their sight. You silly boys," Antonia called out nonchalantly. She moved past the two, who were now involved in their own private conversation. Toby jumped when she passed by, hand to his backside, and fired, "Hey, quit it!"

"Why can't a woman get what she wants?" she winked.

"Especially if she can get it from a kid half her age, huh?" Toby snapped back. He made a stance. "But you better watch it before I go kung fu on your arse."

"I'll take it from you there anytime."

Dominic pushed Toby aside. "Sometimes, you people disgust me," he said.

Lupin sat down and wiped his face with a towel, amused. Even wearing Gaczyna-issued fatigues, the Freedom Hounds' spirits never changed.

"So, little Toby here wants to show off, eh?" Antonia said.

Toby took a roll of canvas strips from a nearby table and started wrapping his hands. "Lupin thinks its Muggle barbarism."

Antonia gave a laugh, a rich, deep-bellied one that came from living a satisfying life. "I thought wizards fought all the time."

"We duel. There's a difference," Lupin explained. "I can do without magic, but I'm not the best."

"Hey, there's potential in everyone," Toby said with enthusiasm.

"But I can't-"

"C'mon," he egged on, taking a fighting stance. "Hit me."

"What?"

"You heard what I said. Hit me."

Lupin hesitated. "You want me to hit you?"

Toby bounced on the balls of his feet, throwing mock punches. "I want you to hit me as hard as you can."

"You sure?"

"Don't think you can do it?"

"Positive now?"

"What, chicken? Oh, the wizardin' werewolf's afraid of violence! He can't take it now- oof!"

The last comment was made when Lupin's fist made contact with Toby's jaw. The boy tumbled to the ground. "Christ!" he exclaimed. "Where'd that come from?"

"You wanted me to hit you. What did you expect to happen?"

"Argh… I dunno… probably a punch in the ear or something." Toby dusted off his clothes. "But not a bad start. I could teach you quite a few things."

"Good."

"Well, how'd you fight before?"

"I'm passive. I prefer to walk away."

"Not with a hit like that you don't."

Lupin cracked a smile. "There were times where I had to learn how to defend myself," he answered. "Now are you going to teach or talk?"

"Fine then, wise wolf," Toby moved back a couple feet and raised his fists. "This time I'm serious. Have a go."

Not being used to taking the offence, Lupin raised his fists unsurely.

"Run at me."

Lupin did. But before he could get a hold of him, the world tossed on end and _thud!_ he handed flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him.

"Whoa," came Toby's voice from above. "I didn't mean to throw you that hard."

"I'm all right," he wheezed, getting up.

"Don't kill the bloke!" Dominic chided playfully from the sidelines. "He's not as young as we are."

Antonia said coyly, "You puppies think you're better then us?"

_Thud!_

Now Dominic joined Lupin on the floor, and Antonia was wiping her hands against each other with a smirk on her face.

"If you want anyone to teach you anything," she said, "let me."

It turned out that all of them were willing to show Lupin their knowledge of "Muggle barbarism." Perhaps they each had a secret ambition to flaunt their skill in front of the wizard werewolf, and half the time they bickered between themselves rather than instructing their pupil. They did manage to teach him some basic kicks and punches. After fighting among themselves for several minutes, they finally agreed on the proper throwing technique and all of them were pleased when Lupin threw Dominic (Toby bouncing about as if he had eaten a dozen Chocolate Frogs and Antonia with a cool sort of satisfaction). Toby, though, with a sense of newfound educator's pride was the one who promised to instruct him personally every afternoon if he wanted.

After, Lupin rested on the ground, tired. Maybe Dominic was right; he wasn't as active as younger wolves. "Where did you learn all this?" Dominic passed him his canteen and he took a drink.

Toby began, excited, "During the summer, we meet up with –"

"Jarohnen did," Dominic rushed in. "The Muggles taught him."

"He seems to know a lot."

"Muggles know more than you wizards think," Antonia answered, a bit smug. "If you'd take a look at those that you deem lesser than you, you might learn something."

"'You' as in the class in general," Toby added, noticing that Lupin could take offense.

"It always seems to be 'you' in general," Lupin smiled. "Otherwise, I would feel very uncomfortable right now."

"It's not your fault that wizards think the way they do," Antonia reassured him. "When they think of werewolves, they have this image of a hunkering beast waiting in the dark. It's silly."

"Or a wild wolf raging out of control," Toby said, "like those Berserkers."

This term was new to Lupin's ears. "Berserker?"

"Yeah," Dominic laughed. "If I could fight like a Berserker, I wouldn't be out here right now." He threw a punch at the swinging bag.

"Berserkers are real wolf fighters," Toby explained, sounding like a nine-year old obsessing about his favourite superhero. "Only those with ancient bloodlines leading back into the Dark Ages even have a smidgen of Berserker blood in them. But even a drop can be enough. Berserkers are legendary warriors. They can actually take their wolves and unleash them while they're human. They're absolutely ruthless. Nothing can stop them. It was a myth that a berserker can charge through a fighting horde without a single scrape; that he can leap as high as three men and have the strength of ten."

"It's all exaggeration, though," Antonia added, looking at Toby with an amused grin.

"No, it isn't!" Toby defended. "Remember what Ulysses said? He saw a Berserker once, in America," he explained quickly to Lupin. "They weren't called Berserkers of course, but some Native American name. Some kind of Pawnee shaman, I think. When the wizards were rounding up all the werewolves to the camps up north, a few of them went berserk on them. There was one – Joseph Howling Moon – who creamed fifty wizards in an hour before he was killed. And that's with only his bare hands," he added.

Lupin commented, "Almost like a giant."

"Without the extended proportions," Toby agreed.

"There's no such thing as 'going berserk' anymore," Dominic said. "It's only an expression. And a corny one too."

"I bet there're still Berserkers out there," Toby said. "They just don't talk about it. I mean, what do you think the Ministry of Magic would do if they knew a werewolf that could take out an entire squadron of Hit Wizards in less than five minutes?"

Lupin looked at the three wolves, two of them at least fifteen years younger than him, and swore he saw ancient blood making their cheeks flush. Or was it the warm weather, and the exertion from that day's exercise? _Ridiculous,_ he reproached himself. Berserkers – he had never even heard of the word before. There were no Berserkers at this camp.

Dominic threw a high kick at the punching bag. The distant cracks of gunfire started filled the empty space_. No, none of them were becoming Berserkers_, he decided quietly,_ but something worse. Much worse._

Chapter 31

_ Cattails blowing in the wind. Swaying, their pulpy heads nudged against each other while in motion. Rustle of the long grass. And the cold night air with the wind and the cattails stirring with the long grass...._

Heat. A distinct feeling of heat pervaded Lupin's mind, as though he was being plunged into a sauna. Sweat formed on his brow and he squinted as the dry, straw-coloured light cut through the closed blinds and hit his face. The conference room was stuffy, mostly because it had been built with a lot of concrete and very little breathing room. Usually the unheated room was freezing, but not today. Harper had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his tie loosened around his neck. There were black smudges on his arms where he had rested them on the inked parchment. Lupin turned away, wiped his forehead with a blue linen handkerchief and watched Harper scribble.

A curious sense of _déjà vu_ overwhelmed him. As if he wasn't supposed to be there, but nevertheless _had_ to be there.

His eye noticed the bandages wrapped around the young man's hands.

"One of the janitors – Lottie – told me of an incident with a cursed envelope," he said.

"What letter? The complaint mail? Hey, no problem – I get complaints fired at me all the time, sometimes not even in mail form." He laughed dismissively with a nervous shaking of his shoulders.

"Was it more than a complaint, Mr. Harper?"

"Nothing," Harper said. "Look, I got most of it reversed." Peeling back one of the bandages, Lupin saw a mangy tuft of yellow fur growing on the back of his hand. "It's mostly harmless, and the doctor said it'll shed eventually. But, damn, it itches."

"Whoever sent that –" began Lupin.

"Shouldn't be your concern, Mr. Lupin," he scratched the back of his hand viciously while adding, "Next time, I'll wear gloves when checking my mail."

"As my barrister, your concerns are my own."

POW!

The impact of Toby's blow sent him flying. Lupin hit the bare ground with a heavy thud and saw stars. He raised his head, confusion on his face, as the sunlight came into his eyes.

"Mr. Harper!"

What was that? Where was he? Outside? The camp? He looked around, wildly. But hadn't he just been in the conference room in Edinburgh with Harper? Hadn't they been working on his line of questioning for the trial?

But the pain of Toby's punch still stung his jaw and left his ears ringing. And Lupin knew that he was at a camp in the middle of nowhere with werewolves that were being trained to fight. Lupin knew that he was in the middle of a sparring match with young Toby, and that he had taken a blow to the face because he was also with Harper asking about his hands. But no, that couldn't be right! Lupin blinked, rubbed his eyes, sat up, and blinked again.

"Geez, did I hit you that hard?" Toby laughed, and rubbed his hands, wrapped in tough canvas like Harper's were covered in stiff linen.

Indeed, the blow had knocked him out of one reality into another.

"I… I… I thought…" Lupin shook his head. He swore that in preceding moment he had been_ with Harper_. Then Lupin fully remembered that he had been staying at the camp for a week or so. He rubbed his jaw. "It must be sunstroke. Yes, most likely."

Toby nodded half-believingly. "Sure. We better take it inside."

He helped Lupin up and they walked back together to the underground entrance. The young wolf offered him his canteen, and Lupin took a swig from it. They were silent for a few moments and then Toby asked, "Not to pry or anything, but who's Mr. Harper?"

"He's my barrister. Or _was_ my barrister. When I was supposed to be on trial." _Or technically still am_, he added silently. Lupin stared at the sky and squinted his eyes. The weather was cool, not like the heat that had made him sweat. "I wonder how the weather is in Scotland," he mused aloud.

"Not as good as where we are," Toby said. "C'mon." And he opened the hole in the ground to disappear.

"Yeah, and he got all rigid and strange. Started to talk to the air." Toby scratched his head. "He said something like, 'As my barrister, your concerns are my own,' or whatever. It was like Lupin wasn't really here at all, but somewhere else."

"What do you think it means?" Claire asked. They were in the bunkers, near the back where Toby's cot was. The young wolf sat hunched over on the bottom bunk of the bed that he shared with Dominic, sharpening a small switchblade against a whetting stone.

He dragged the blade once lazily over the flat stone. "I dunno. I'm wondering whether it was the heat today or something. It was too hot to practice inside, so we went out. But you know," Toby leaned in to say in a confidential whisper, "I've been getting bad vibes from him. No offense really. He's a good wolf, Remus Lupin is, but there's also this… weird feeling I get from him. He's sort of an odd bloke."

" 'Ow do you think so?" she said defensively.

Toby raised his hands. "I'm not beating down on your boyfriend or anything-"

"Remus is not my boyfriend."

"Or, as you might call it, your _beau_. Whatever." He gave a cock-eyed grin and folded the blade shut. "Don't tell me you haven't been banging each other like rabbits every time you two sneak off camp."

"Banging each ozzar like rabbits?" She arched an eyebrow and shoved his shoulder. "_Please_."

"But, seriously, I'm wondering: if you two ever get it on, how would that happen? Would you be able to feel anything down there or is it just all nothing? That would kind of take the fun out of it – hey, hey, ouch!"

Claire stopped hitting Toby over the back of the head and leaned back in her chair. "Do you ever think of anything outside of your testosterone drive?"

"Okay, okay, I get it. Sorry." The redhead backed down. "I'd keep an eye on him, though," he added. "Even Ulysses's still wondering if he's on our side. The only reassurance we have is that he has you."

"Of course he's wiz us. All of you 'ave been like Big Bruzzer ever since he came 'ere. Remus trusts me. And whatever 'odd' thing you see in 'im, zat is ridiculous. Maybe today's weather got to 'is 'ead." She sighed. "Zair is a difference about Remus now zan from what I remember. But no matter. Jarohnen said it would take time for 'im to get used to things. Only time."

Claire observed Remus curiously during mealtime that evening. He only picked at his bowl, tasting little. His fingers kept rubbing the handle of his spoon as if making sure it was real. Most of all, he approached everything in a distant, questioning manner: adjusting and re-adjusting his posture, taking quick scans of the room and longer looks at her.

"Not 'ungry?" she asked.

"Not very much." Remus put his spoon down for the tenth time in ten minutes. "Something happened to me while sparring with Toby this morning, that's all."

"What was it?"

"I don't know." Then he picked up his spoon again and ate without another word.

The Ministry was a fortress, so he didn't bother going there for information. Ulysses didn't want him to break inside there anyway. He had his orders. Go to Edinburgh and find any information about their comrade Remus Lupin.

For the problem was, there didn't seem to be any information. Not even the papers had come out with anything after the Freedom Hounds rescued Lupin; Ulysses said that was the strangest part of all. Were the wizards trying to cover it up? Did they even realise Lupin was missing?

"Working nights in the Ministry nights must be hell." Dominic slipped at the mug of ale he had been nursing for the past half-hour. Beside him, his companion was downing her fifth. It was amazing to watch such a small person hold so much alcohol at once.

"Weel, Ah do wha' Ah must," came the reply along with a hiccup. With a dull thud, the empty bottle came down on the counter and tipped over.

"Do you want another one, Lottie?" the blond wolf asked, straightening up the Guinness bottle before it rolled off the table.

The red-faced Squib gave an exaggerated nod. "Gits borin' nou tha' Ah'm wurkin' by meself. Mi last janitor, he was a gud ane. Terrible tha' he left. Terrible." Lottie Gordon sighed. "An' Ah miss him. He was such a nice laddie, y'know?"

"I see." Dominic gestured for the bartender to bring over a fresh bottle and he pulled off the cap for her. Handing it over, he continued, "You probably see all sorts of things working there. Like that time a while ago when the werewolf got arrested. It was a big event when it first came out."

"Oh, an' he was a quiet laddie tae," Lottie went on. "Bu' he got his work dun, an' Ah even made him clean oot aa the johns an' he dunnae cared. Wha' a gud man Dougie Ridley was."

"I'm sure he was," Dominic agreed. "Now I'm sure you heard plenty of talk about the werewolf lately—"

"Bu' he might have got scared after the Incinerator. He went doun there – fer wha' Ah cunnae tell ye – an' he was gettin' aa 'em eggs, an' an Ashwinder went oop his leg an' got him in the ankle. He was near dead, Dougie Ridley was. Ah fund him so."

Impatient, Dominic tried playing along. "Dougie sounds like an interesting fellow," he remarked.

"Onlie the best," she agreed. "An' ye knou wha?" Her voice turned grave. "There's a secret Ah know aboot him. He's more than wha' ye think. An' Ah promised nut tae tell anee ane."

"Then maybe we should stop talking about him."

"Oh, it's a big, big secret," Lottie said, holding out her arms in a wild, drunken gesture. "Bu' Ah promised him tha' Ah wunnae tell a soul. Sum fowk might not think much of him if they knew. Bu' Ah was his gud friend; I wunnae tell anee soul fer the world –"

Dominic hit his fist against the tabletop. "Then stop chattering, you damn twit!"

Lottie halted. Her whole beefy face puckered up in disgust. With wobbly legs, she stood up. "Ah think our conversation's over," she mumbled stiffly. "Nou if ye'd excuse mi, Ah'll best be headin' hame."

_Great. Twenty sickles wasted on one sorry-arsed asset,_ Dominic thought. _Ulysses would be pleased._

"Bu'…" She stood stock straight and gave him a steady eye. "Eef ye want tae knou so much aboot tha' werewolf, Ah'll tell ye this: he's still livin' doun there in tha' dungeon, an' nune oo the Big Anes ever checked oop on him after tha' hearin'. They wanna leave him there 'til he's a skeleton in tha' dungeon."

"So not even the Ministry knows anything about him?" Dominic said, almost disbelievingly.

"He's going bonkers doun thair Ah bet," she affirmed. "He dunnae say a word. Ah never seen him meself, 'cept when the officers brought him doun, an' tha' was almost two weeks ago. Haven't heard a peep or a parry since."

Typical wizard behaviour! They threw Jarohnen in the dark for a month; the same treatment for Remus, he'd assume. But that was to the pack's advantage; by the time the Ministry discovered his disappearance, the cell would be halfway across the continent. "What bastards," he commented.

Lottie snorted. "Hope ye got's wha's cumin' tae ye," she spat. Dominic stood up and wished her good night. Lottie gave an overstretched grin that sent tremors down her chins. "Wha'ever suits ye best," she said vaguely. "Gud tae see ye gut wha' ye deserved!"

What was that Squib speaking of now? Dominic shook his head to himself as he left the Flying Leviathan. Strangely enough, Lottie emitted a peal of wild laughter, as if she had taken part in the funniest joke in the world. Her laugher flooded out the door, tumbling in Dominic's wake, and when he entered the street, it burst into a night in a fury of maniacal mirth whose source remained unknown to the world.

The sun rose and set, rose and set, rose and set. There was no clock; there was no time. Only the stirring of the wind over the dry, crackling brush, and the sun coasting along in its azure playground.

As time passed, Lupin's attachment to Claire grew. He felt like such an outsider here in this Nowhere-Anywhere that he found himself coming to her more and more. She was familiar to him and he liked that. When they parted, little time would pass before he would want to see her again. Old feelings stirred in his heart, and he would catch himself absorbed in the little things about her, like how she brushed her hair away from her eyes or raise the graceful curve of her neck to gaze at the heavens. And her hands were the most intriguing part; he had never seen such hands. He felt them: smooth, yet calloused, with defined knuckles and joints. These were hands that had experienced life.

Sometimes he wondered whether if he was in love with her. He must be, Lupin decided, if he had such a close fascination with her. This love, however, could never be compared with the fevered adoration he had for his little girl. Love comes in many different flavours and qualities, and his love for Claire was like drinking water and pretending it was wine.

Perhaps it was pity that moved him. Whenever the word pity moved through his mind, however, shame would drive it away. _Love, not pity_, he told himself. _For if this is not love, then I must be damned cruel for only feeling sympathy for someone who sacrificed so much._

So he let her hand slip into his on occasion. So he held her will over his. So he practiced all the small things love should provide.

The result – to see her smile lines deepen, to hear her contented sighs, to feel her warm body, to smell the scent of her hair as she rested her head on his shoulder – was worth it. A thousand times over, it was worth it.

Thus, they left the camp for hours on end; they talked under the stars and the sun. They became so close that she trusted him more and more. And Lupin fell more and more in love. Whether his feelings were pure or tainted by guilt he could not say.

"Remus?"

He shook his head and looked at her. Early night shadows deepened the contours of her face, distinguishing her cheekbones, the darkness in her eyes. Again, he had been lost in his own thoughts about Nowhere-Anywhere. About Sirius. About Mary. About Claire.

"We 'ave to go."

"Yes, yes." He got up and folded up the blankets as she continued her way down the path.

"I didn't know we stayed out so late," she said. "Our little walks after dinner are becoming far too long."

"I never notice the time."

A pause. "Neither do I."

By the time they reached the camp, night had settled itself down upon the hills. Lone groups of five or six wolves moved past them, dressed in black and carrying long bundles under their arms and heavy belts across their chest. Lupin stared away from the group, as if by not seeing them he could pretend they didn't exist.

Underground, the torches were blazing, and sounds of shouting and laughter were heard from the mess hall. Learn how to kill, then share some food and a joke afterwards. A knot folded in on itself in Lupin's stomach and he moved closer to Claire's chair, shunning those bitter thoughts. He used her as his shield, blocking out the harsh realities he refused to confront.

They reached her room, and Lupin opened her door. He waited for her to go past him, then shut the door, as usual, but she stayed, and placed her hand on his. "Come in?" she offered.

Startled at this sudden break from routine, he asked, "Whatever for?"

"Because." Hesitation. "I want you to 'elp me into bed." She quickly amended, "If you would like to."

"Is something wrong?" he asked, concerned. "Did you hurt yourself?"

She bit her lip. "Would you only 'elp if I said zat?" A short laugh. "I'm only tired tonight…."

"Or too lazy to get out by yourself?"

"_Vraiment._ I am a lazy pig and," she hit his shoulder playfully, "you must 'elp me."

He laughed. "Do you want me to tuck you into bed?"

She gave a coy glance in reply.

Lupin entered the room, turned on the light and moved the sheets aside before he came to her. Resting one arm behind her back and another beneath her knees, he whispered, "Ready?"

_"Oui."_

He lifted her. The soft insides of her arms pressed against his neck; he could caught a whiff of lavender and another scent… a smell wonderfully natural and musky and different from anything a man could bottle….

Unconsciously, his grip tightened.

Claire wasn't the lightest of people, but he set her down upon the mattress as if she was a feather. How odd it felt to take a grown woman to bed…

Lupin pulled up the sheets with a hasty yank and resisted the urge to tuck them in beneath her chin. His hand smoothed out the winkles and brushed up against her side. A gasp was heard.

Embarrassed, he held back and retreated a few steps from the bedside. Claire stared at him from beneath lowered eyelids.

"I didn't-" he began.

"Shhhhhhh…" She reached over, took his hand, and tugged, gently. Lupin had no idea whether to resist or be taken in; confused, he stood his ground.

Claire put her other hand to her mouth; Lupin swore she was stifling a smile. But when the hand left, she was only looking flatly at him, her face still, but her eyes dancing.

With playful tugs on the arm, she drew him by her side again. "You said you would tuck me in," she teased. "You're not doing ze best of jobs now, are you?"

"I never thought you wanted me to," he heard himself say.

With small, firm stokes, she caressed the hand she held. Maddening sensations were running through him, making his palms feel sweaty and his heart quicken.

"Tonight I do," she replied, softly. Claire placed his hand on the edge of the blanket and left it there. Distracted, Lupin played with the fabric briefly, rubbing the coarse material between his fingers. Then, he reached over to take the other corner and gracefully lifted up the blanket. With utmost care, he lowered himself over her to tuck the cloth in. Being so close, with her acting so vulnerable, but so bold… Her scent filled the air; he could feel her eyes upon him.

He didn't know if he could control himself at that moment. He folded the edge over and draped it just underneath her shoulders. Lupin tried keeping his eyes low to avoid hers, but they came to rest upon a more questionable part of her anatomy. He shut them quickly. Her scent was driving him to places he dared not think-

" 'Ow long are you going to stand zair?" she whispered, half-joking.

Lupin looked down upon her face, so contained and expectant. His arms weighed down upon the cot on either side of her; she was trapped but he was the one made rigid.

Suddenly her arms were around him and his face against hers. Lips touched his and he responded, eagerly; her hands entangled themselves within his hair, her nails brushing against his scalp; his arms closed in and they were wrapped around her; his fingers were getting caught in her braid; and her scent, rich and intoxicating, overcame him…

He wanted to stay. He wanted to stay and be with her, stay and hold her, stay and let her do anything she wanted with him and let him do anything he wanted with her. And then their kiss deepened and her tongue moved with his… And he wanted to have her and he thought whether it could be possible, then he thought it _was_ possible and he could make it so… and she gave a closed-mouth moan that sounded like she was dying, and she was dying and he was dying, entwined in each other's arms… and he shifted his weight more onto the bed and he could feel her hand slip underneath his shirt and cling to the muscles of his back… and he thought it could be possible and it was possible and he was _going to make it so_… and her scent, her overpowering scent dizzied his senses and he could tell his scent throttled hers as well…

They were kissing and he did not let her go. They were kissing and he did not let her go.

Then she released him with a sharp breath that drove him mad. And he felt there was too much between them, too much between them and he wanted to take it all off and he wanted nothing between them, and he wanted to touch her everywhere with nothing between them, and he was _going to make it so…_

Hands fumbled with cloth, pulling and shoving, ripping buttons, tearing seams. And he grabbed her hair tightly and pulled; he drowned his mouth in the delicate hollow of her neck, like a vampire. And he smelled her and tasted her and wanted her….

And the cloth tore and the hands reached. And she was pushing him away, but he did not let her go. And she had a frightened mote in her eye which make her blind and tearful; she struggled as if fighting a demon and a high, frightened noise came from the back of her throat-

"_Arrêtez! Arrêtez!_"

Lupin froze and thought, _No, it cannot be._

"Claire?"

She buried her face in her hands, her ears burning with shame. Her whole body trembled; the smooth flesh of her bare abdomen lay exposed between folds of her open shirt, half-ripped off in his desire. With the cloth ripped from under it, the heavy straps of her brace rubbed against her skin. Abashed, she held her torn clothing shut with a white-knuckled fist. "_Je regrette…_" she said in a strained voice. "_Je regrette beaucoup…_" A hiccup jumped from her lips.

"Sorry? About what?" Lupin slid off the bed and held her shaking wrists. "Claire…?"

"I wanted to…" she explained. "I wanted to! But zen you came on top of me and I could feel my… my… clothes being thrown off and you were touching so roughly…." She trailed off. "It was nothing."

"Claire, you know it wasn't nothing." He felt indescribably disgusted with himself for reducing her to this state. Lupin knelt by the bedside and lowered her hand from her eyes. "Tell me."

"I…I…I…" Claire shook her head wildly and shoved him away. "I panicked. I became scared. Zat is all."

"It was more than that," Lupin said firmly. "I won't leave until you tell me."

"It was 'e." She pressed her lips together to make a thin, drawn line. "You were t-taking off… my… my clothes…and I… I couldn't move and I saw 'im." Another blink and her eyelashes became wet. "I saw zat it was not you and zat it was 'im and 'e was going to… to…to…"

"To assault you," Lupin euphemised.

"To rape me," she spat. Claire's eyes darted over to the corner. "And you're not 'im and you're never going to be 'im, but I became so frightened and I couldn't control myself…" Another tear. "I am so very, very sorry…"

"Don't-"

"I-I-I shouldn't 'ave done it," she said. "I ruined everything-"

"Don't." Lupin put a finger to her lips. "Nothing is ruined." He kissed her, carefully, and pulled the blanket up all the way. The disappointment throbbed within him, but not as much as the guilt. God, he did not want to remind her of that hellish nightmare she went through! Lupin wondered if she had seen Agent Parsons's face peering down over her at that moment, or if Lupin had only resembled him then and couldn't decide which possibility was worse. But he would never, ever want to transform into such a monster.

Claire truly did appear vulnerable lying there on that bed, trying to guard her modesty and her pride. What if she were to remain vulnerable for the rest of her life? Lupin felt the urge to protect her, to shelter her from any evil that would even think of harming her. It was the same feeling that he had – or maybe had had – for Mary.

A tremendous sense of need. She needed him and he needed her.

Lupin stroked her cheek. "Go to sleep."

"I am not a pup," she said harshly. "I can choose to sleep when I want."

"As you wish." Lupin rose to his feet.

"And I want to sleep wiz you."

He stopped, mid-stride. "Claire-"

"_Oui_," she affirmed. "I want you, 'ere, beside me…"

"Well, the cot wouldn't-"

"I want you to stay 'ere." She sounded as if she were trying to make up for her previous rejection. "_Avec moi._" She hesitated. "So I know I'm not alone."

Lupin gave a nod. He pulled up the stool beside her. Claire gestured to the table. "Zair are more blankets underneath."

He willingly drew them out and folded one across his lap.

"_Non, non_, do not sleep sitting up. You will be uncomfortable."

"But then I wouldn't be beside you," he answered, silencing her. He leaned his back against the wall and turned his head to meet her eyes. The happiness glowed, making the grey turn to molten silver. Lupin slipped his hand in hers. A small smile crept across her face.

"_Bonne nuit_," she whispered.

"_Bonne nuit_."

Chapter 32

The next day wore a lead coat that weighed down on every little thing. Activity at the camp dribbled down to a slow run rather than a torrent of action. Still, Claire could hear the soft voices of instructors in dim rooms, and the stomping feet of the young wolves exercising outside, stirring up dust from the desert-dry soil.

Claire focused on these distant sounds from her room. At the table, Remus leafed through one of the Werewolf Cause philosophy manuals. She could tell that he did this to pass the time and not reading for deep contemplation. Claire wondered what his opinion was about this Nowhere-Anywhere he resided in. Above all, she hoped he was happy, but from the guarded look in his eyes all she could tell was that he approached everything with both caution and attentiveness.

Seeing him there, Claire felt the urge to touch him, but didn't. Was it restraint? Was it uncertainty?

She did not have much time left. Every single moment had to count for an eternity with her. For a pup, a day would stretch out as far as the horizon, but Claire could see how short these few days she had would be, the days before she would leave this camp and return to the real world she was trapped in, her brother's world. So little time to get over her fears. But terror would not be her master. Not anymore.

Remus put the book down flat on the table for the tenth time in the past half-hour. "You've been awfully quiet today."

She looked over at him, meaning to reply. Claire wanted to call him tender, sincere names like she had heard lovers do, yet pet names like "honey" or "sweetheart" or "darling" made her squirm. No-one ever used those titles of affection with her; not even her mother had called her "_ma chère_." But he was still very dear to her. Remus was the best person she had ever met; that was why she found him so attractive. Or maybe it was the other way around.

"Remus," she said, using all the feeling she could not express otherwise, "about last night…" She could feel the back of her ears start to burn.

"You are not to blame at all for what happened," Remus said. "I have… no idea what came over me; my reaction was completely uncalled for and I cannot bear to think– "

"I know." She swallowed hard. This was something she had to do. Willing herself to the hardest measure, she said in a flat voice, "I want you to lie wiz me."

"Lie with you?"

"To sleep."

Before he could reply, she hastened, "I only want to be comfortable wiz people touching me again. At times, I feel zat I'm not even a being anymore. I feel as if I am not myself. As if I am so many different parts, but not a whole…" She could feel her face flush. "…woman," she finished, clearing her throat. "I would greatly like to feel like a woman again."

She dropped her head. Idiot! Imagine the look of repulsiveness Remus was wearing that moment! Oh, why did she have to be so stupid as to say that! Better if she had never said anything at all! Shutting her eyes, as if blocking out an unpleasant reality, she substituted, "Forget it. Ze idea is stupid and crude."

His silence only deepened her fears of indecency. "Remus?"

He took her hand. "I don't want to scare you," he said.

"I do not want to be scared. Especially of you." Claire kept her eyes closed, face turned away. "But I cannot 'elp feeling frightened when any man – any man, even if 'e was my own brother – comes near me."

"So you want us to share a bed, but nothing else? Would it be uncomfortable or…"

"If it is a short rest, we could try," she said.

She didn't want to make the first move, suddenly embarrassed to act overeager. Instead, she stared at her hands, awkwardly. Remus hesitated, in turn, standing unsurely by his chair. She took one look at him, then with fresh determination, she said, "_Ferme __la porte_."

He did without hesitation, and Claire asked nervously, "Are you sure you want to do zis? Zat it is more zan pitying a poor fool?"

Remus gave a crooked grin. "As long as you don't hog the sheets, I won't mind."

She lifted the back of her shirt. Hard metal and unforgiving plastic. Remus turned away politely as Claire undid the straps with shaking fingers. In one swoop, all the blood rushed to her head; she was nervous; she was scared. Quickly, she stopped half-way through, pulled down her shirt, and turned around. Remus cast his eyes in the other direction, like a schoolboy. He stared at the wall and said, "You don't have to."

"I want to." She swallowed hard.

What if she reacted the same way as before? Would this be nothing but embarrassment? But what if this fear was right, was appropriate? Was she forsaking her safety? Was she only fooling herself?

What if she was making him do this? Did he even want to anymore? By the spirits, this was degrading! Why was she doing this? No, now was not the time!

With one quick motion, she undid the last straps to her brace and let it fall to the floor.

"Is taking it off safe?" he questioned, eyes to the wall.

"It will do no damage…." Putting the brake on her chair, Claire gripped the sides and lifted herself out with ease. But what if she did hurt herself? Three months the doctors said – well, that time was nearly over. Surely there could be no harm for a short while.

Sitting down on the bed, she stared at Remus as she slowly removed her shirt. Again, Remus started, "I thought –" but stopped when he saw the determination in her eyes.

"What do you think?" she asked softly, baring her back to him.

From behind, she heard his soft footsteps cross the room. The bed sagged as he sat next to her. His boots clunked as they hit the floor, and she took hers off too. Carefully, with fingers like a surgeon, he traced the rough pattern where metal had replaced bone.

"You're beautiful," he whispered.

"Don't lie."

"I'm not."

She felt his breath on her neck. "Only to hold?"

_"Oui."_

She watched as he unbuttoned his own shirt. An ugly brown pitted mass stretched across his left side. Claire recoiled. "We all have our scars to bear," he told her.

Gingerly, she moved her fingers across the damaged skin. Spreading her hand over it, she saw its length extended from the heel of her palm to her fingertips. When she stretched out her hand, the breadth of the scar stretched past her nails. "Why so large?"

"When he bit, the skin ripped right off," he answered bluntly. "Got past muscle, into the organs, broke a couple ribs…" He gave a wry chuckle when he saw the expression on her face. "Too much information?"

"But you survived."

"The miracle of my life." Remus slipped in beside her. "You know," he commented casually, "This is an extremely narrow bed. I feel like I'm going to fall right out at any moment."

Claire tried to make room, shuffling back further to the other edge. "I did not realise –"

"Or perhaps this would solve things." He wrapped an arm around her. "I think we'll manage."

She nodded. Quietly, she held him, flesh to flesh, muscles tense, watching the shadows from the barred window stretch and thin. She was so scared, so scared of this, of him. He rubbed his hand in little circles against her back, like a comforting parent. Soft sighs came as time slipped past. She relaxed and leaned her head against him. So warm. She could hear his heart. _Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump._

Slowly, she ran her fingers through his hair, almost absentmindedly. Then, quite unexpectedly, Remus bent down and placed his lips on her forehead. Then on her cheek. Her nose. The spot between her eyes. Her lips.

Claire made a small noise as she parted her mouth to welcome his. His taste. Beautiful.

As they kissed, she felt his hands move to fondle her chest. His grip and strong, his touch firm, and – _mon Dieu, par les epirits…_

Agent Parsons's breath – hands – holding – couldn't – fear – breathe –

He was going to hurt her, he was going to kill her, he was –

No. This was Remus, this was Remus. Wouldn't hurt. No. Please. Yes. Oh someone please–! He wouldn't, he wouldn't, he wouldn't –

"Please." She could feel his hot breath. Hot breath. Fear. Entrapment. No. Yes.

"Remus. Remus!" The high voice. The pale, frightened voice. "Please!"

He let go. Fear in his eyes.

"Don't. No." She took him in again.

"But you –"

"Kiss." Shaking breath. Face begging. Deliverance from fear, deliverance from pain.

He kissed her, his mouth slipping into hers. And she could feel his hand pull, tangled, in her hair, and his face pressed close to hers, and the hot breath blew on her cheek. He held her close, and she couldn't move, couldn't struggle, and everything went dark and cruel, and the panic raced up from his stomach to her chest and she struggled. Her eyes went wild, focusing not on Remus's face, but another's, and she didn't feel his hands, but another person's tearing at her flesh.

She moaned and tried pushing him away again, but he murmured, "Shhhhhhhh…" and caressed her hair with short, sure strokes, undoing her braid.

This was Remus. He wouldn't hurt her. Never hurt her. Yes. Please. Oh, please, yes.

She tasted the hollow of his neck, the salt of his skin, the smooth tanned flesh. This was Remus. And they kissed and she felt his hands press against her bare back and smelled the warm musky scent of his hair and heard the low panting fill the air.

Her arms moved lower. She let him take her mouth with his, she let him take her body with his hands. His hands rubbed the peripheral of feeling, just below her navel, slipping underneath her trousers, beneath her underwear. He slipped off the last of their clothes. She knew he was touching her below and she let him. Surrendering.

She would do anything for Remus Lupin.

Oh.

God.

Please.

Yes.

Please.

Yes.

And her eyelids fluttered like butterflies and her breath came out warm and smooth and her chest rose and fell with the same rhythm as his. Her hands grabbed him from behind and he pushed forward, wanting her. The way he pressed against her. Tasting her. Tasting each other. And the rhythm filled the air with the tribal beat of the blood in their veins and the pounding drum of their hearts. She could only see Remus, only Remus, not Parsons, not pain, not fear. Only Remus.

Hoarse whisper.

_"Je t'aime."_

Only Remus.

He took her leg and swung it over his hip, locking her in, while kissing her neck, her collarbone, her shoulder. Claire was dizzy with love, dizzy with want, dizzy and lost but safe. She felt so safe now, with Remus all around her.

"Now." Another kiss, long and deep and fierce. "Take me."

A murmur. A groan. "Claire..."

"No pain," she murmured in a childlike voice. "No pain. Not anymore. Please." She shoved him up against her, so that he could feel her where her legs parted. He felt her, and she swore, she swore that if she wanted to, if she really wanted to, she could feel him too. She wanted him inside, like a real woman would.

He became a child too, and they both spoke in baby voices while nestled together.

"Can you feel me?"

"Here?" She stroked gently.

A gasp. "No, not there." His hand moved and cupped her gently between the legs. "Here." One glance gave the answer. "You can't," Remus whispered.

"Doesn't matter," she murmured into his ear, pressing his hand down. "_Prenez-moi_."

"Can't," he whispered. "I'll hurt you." He rubbed his head against her chest. "Never want to hurt you." Another kiss on her skin.

"It won't." Whispers in the sun-streaked afternoon. "Swear it won't. I won't cry."

"You won't mean to." His eyes, so dark, so warm, locked with hers. "But you will." He moved forward again. She could feel him against her stomach, wanting her. "I'll get through this."

"_Je suis si heureuse maintenant…_" Another whisper, another touch. _"Je te veux être heureux…"_

She took him in her hand. One stroke. Gentle. Firm. His eyes rolled back, his head fell forward.

Again. He groaned. He buried his face in her neck and she could smell the strong, sharp scent of his flesh. Her free arm snaked its way around and rubbed his back, so slick, so smooth. And she felt his body tremble just as hers did, so shaking and so hot….

_Mon Dieu_, he was beautiful. Tense and sweating. Hair in tendrils. Eyes aglow, catching the light.

Again, and he shuddered completely, and so did she. His hips worked against her side and she wanted to guide him in, wanted to ease him in completely. But he held her so tightly and his breath came out so warm, and it was all motion, all motion, and he was so beautiful like that in her arms and there was no pain. He put his mouth to her shoulder, and she whimpered as he gently bit down. As if trying to take her somehow without coming in.

But she felt him.

So close.

Moving. Thrusting.

Again and again and again…

He came, giving a sudden, sharp yell before going limp in her arms.

Panting sounds filled the quiet room.

Contentment. Peace. Trust. Remus, exhausted, kissed her clumsily. Claire ran her fingers through his tangled hair and planted her lips to his forehead.

"Thank you." Ragged voice.

She blinked back tears. No pain. There was no pain. "You're welcome_,"_ she muttered with half-lidded eyes. "You are always welcome, _mon amour_." My love. Mine.

He rubbed his face against hers, saying nothing. One more kiss. Then sleep came to them, and like little pups alone in the world, they cradled each other in the fading afternoon sun.

In the midst of their slumber, the door moved ajar. One eye, as blue and cold as broken Arctic ice, watched for a few moments, before the door shut.

Evening arrived. Claire wrapped her arm around his shoulder and draped it across his chest. Pulling closer, she could smell the dry, musky scent of his neck, tinged with salt. She could feel the rich, dark hair brush against her cheek gently like a wolf's fur. Rubbing her face against it, Claire tightened her hold on his sleeping form. A proud sense of ownership buoyed her spirits. Remus would live here and Jarohnen would find work for him. He could be a professor like he used to be, and teach the young pups how to make magic.

Then maybe she would learn how to walk again. If she did, Claire could leave her dirty, broken world behind where her family stared at her with pitying eyes. She could run away from Bernard and his irritating authoritative ways. She could be free again. Then she and Remus could share a bed like this for the rest of their lives.

These thoughts made her dizzy. Tenderly, Claire let her hand brush down his chest and kissed the back of his neck.

Remus muttered something beneath his breath and stirred. She moved her hand away and closed her eyes as he turned in bed.

He murmured, "Good evening," and touched her cheek.

She opened them again, smiled, then propped herself up. "It is."

Swinging his legs out of the cot, he then reached down and picked up her brace. She took it wordlessly and wrapped it around her waist. Remus hooked together the little straps and clasps deftly, before looking about for their clothes.

They dressed, and Claire had barely finished gathering up the soiled sheets when there was a knock on the door. Toby poked his head through. "I knew I'd find you two here," he said, giving Claire a smirk. "Ulysses wants to see Lupin."

"What about?" he asked.

"Oh, he wants to show you something."

"Now?"

"Well, if you rabid bunnies want to clean yourselves up…"

_"Tais-toi."_ Claire threw the sheets at him. "Take care of zese."

"Tell him I'll be ready in a half-hour," said Remus. He turned around to give her one last look before he followed Toby out of the room.

As Lupin exited, Toby clicked his tongue and held the sheets at arm's length. "You want me to get clean clothes?" He winked, leaning in. Lupin gave a rueful grin and light shove.

"Where's Ulysses?"

"You'll find him in the mess hall."

As Lupin walked down the maze of hallways to the showers, he thought of Claire. He couldn't explain why they had done what they had. She had been his first lover in a long time. Perhaps this was love, and Claire had finally become real to him. Real as the metal bones of her back and the calluses on her hands. Real as her twisted smile and her foreign accent. If it had been false, if it had been all lies, then she wouldn't have acted the way she had. That mixture of need and pain that had made him want her.

But he had not completed the act. She had wanted to, and oh God, he had felt that she was ready. He had touched her and his fingers had come away slick. Even if she could not feel it, she knew. And he knew he had wanted to and if he had been careful, it wouldn't have hurt her at all.

Then why had he held back?

Whenever there were any entangling situations, emotional or physical, Lupin tried to sort them out into a mental priority list with his concerns placed dead last. But now, in these circumstances, everything had him so highly involved that he couldn't divorce himself from any of it. First of all, he was staying in a camp that would give any Registry official nightmares. Secondly, there was a woman who had risked something more than her life, the _quality of her life_, for him, and that frightened him. Thirdly, – for a reason Lupin could completely feel at ease with, since it put all emotion aside – to go too far would have had dangerous consequences for Claire. What if she had gotten pregnant? He did not even want to think of the terrible consequences of that.

He had to stay, then – or, perhaps, he wanted to stay – and return her love. This wasn't too terrible, if they could ignore the destructive world around them…

His clothes were laid out over a folded chair when he left the showers. He changed quickly, then headed over to the mess hall.

Ulysses was adjusting the laces of his boot when Lupin met him. "So…" he drawled. "You're looking quite refreshed."

"Toby said you wanted to see me."

"Yup. A-1 and I were talkin' and we figured that it was 'bout time we asked you for advice."

"Advice?"

The Texan guided Lupin down a little corridor that Lupin hadn't noticed before. Partway down, he could hear orders echoing off the walls.

"Y'see, there's a special class that we'd like your comments about. We'd figured you'd be the pro."

The orders became clearer with each step. "Swish! Flick!"

An ugly feeling rose from Lupin's stomach. They stopped at a closed door. With a grandiose gesture, Ulysses pulled down the handle and swung it open.

"I'd like to welcome you to our Magical Arts course."

About a dozen young werewolves, all dressed in the dust brown and grey garb, sat in four rows on the benches. All observed with intense concentration as the instructor waved his arm about almost comically shouting, "Swish! Flick! Swish! Flick!"

In turn, the wolves swung their sticks in unison like conductors with batons.

"Yes! Yes! Swish! Flick! Swish! Fli-" The commands died in the instructor's throat when he noticed them. Immediately, his posture stiffened and his arms pinned themselves to his sides.

The group of wolves halted. All of them were holding their sticks in mid-flourish. Lupin didn't know whether to laugh or not. This whole situation was ludicrous, but the fierce determination he saw in their faces killed his amusement.

"Welcome to our course in the Magical Arts," the instructor said with a grand gesture to his pupils. "Humble imitations of wizard classes, but my students possess double the work ethic."

Imitation indeed. Keen embarrassment for them and keen discomfort for himself made Lupin turn to Ulysses for his response, but instead, he had a stick shoved into his hand by the Texan wolf. "I'm sure you have an expert's hand for this."

"Um… I suppose that could be true…" Lupin started, thinking fast.

"Balderdash! Go on, we're all waitin'." There seemed to be a calculating glint in the other wolf's eye as he said this. Lupin gripped the stick, and then looked quickly at the pack of wolves eager for his input. Was it his imagination, or were they all intent upon him like a predator with its next meal?

He cleared his throat and said mildly, "First off, in my experience, waving your arms about like German wizards saluting Grindelwald is not a very accurate way of conjuring."

With measured steps, he came forward and said, keeping his voice light, "You have to relax your hold. Loosen up your wrists a bit. Drop those sticks and shake your wrist out."

Like trained puppies, the group abandoned their wands and flapped their wrists as if they were broken.

"That's it!" he encouraged. "Remove all those kinks!"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Magical Arts instructor and Ulysses whispering between themselves. Shaking off his uneasiness, Lupin continued, "There now. Once we have ourselves properly relaxed, the magic will flow stronger. Now, pick up your sticks." He held his as an example. "Not too tightly – you there, don't clench. Ready? Now, all together: swish and flick! Swish and flick!"

Feeling as if he was making a mockery of his former colleague Professor Flitwick, Lupin paraded in front of the pack, calling out the order in firm tones. The wolves obediently heeded, but still swished and flicked as if they were chopping flying cabbage heads with machetes. Nevertheless, Lupin complimented, "Can't you sense the change in your rhythm?"

"Yes, sir!" One of them barked, hacking the air in front of him.

"With true wands, you would be able to tell a marked difference." Handing his stick back to the instructor, he told him, "That's enough for today. We mustn't rush things."

"But you will return tomorrow, correct?"

Lupin didn't skip a beat, though his heart did. "Of course. This is only the basics."

Ulysses put an arm around Lupin's shoulder as if closing the jaws of the trap. "Keep it up, Remus, an' your goin' to fit right in." Lupin had no choice but to smile in agreement.

Chapter 33

During supper that night, Lupin felt a hundred eyes staring upon him as he ate. The hungry, analyzing eyes asking, _"Are you one of us?"_

He played with the food in his bowl and looked at Claire beside him. There seemed to be a new life sprung in her, like someone had lit a fire inside that made her cheeks glow and her movements swift. She kept looking up at him more often than he did at her. He finished quickly by not eating at all. Lupin placed his arm on hers, whispering, "Might we speak in private?"

She squeezed his hand. _"Certainement."_

Ignorant of her uplifted mood, he nearly pushed her chair for her as they secluded themselves in his room. Lupin went to lock the door, but then realised once again that these doors only locked on the outside. He shut it quickly and was tempted to prop a chair against the handle, but instead sat down with his back to the window.

"Claire, is this yours?" he blurted out.

She gave him a wary look. "What do you mean?"

Lupin cleared his throat, trying to rein in his anxiety. "I mean," he said, "what is your place here?"

"My… my place?" She crossed her arms. "Remus, what –"

He put a hand to his forehead. What if she was only another pair of eyes, another one of _them_? How could he be so foolish as to confide in her! She, who was the most out of place in this camp, had only one purpose to remain here: for him. And how long had she been a part of them? Did it go back as long as she ran her Safehouses, those terrorist breeding grounds? As long as she had had the opportunity to seduce a wizard into joining their ranks?

The feeling of betrayal made him nauseous. How long had this been going on? How long was she plotting against him? Lupin wanted to run out of this camp right at that moment if only to see if he still had the freedom to do so.

Claire came to him and rested her hand on the side of his face. "Something 'appened?"

Quelling his fretfulness, he took her hand away. "Please answer me."

Her words were chosen carefully. "Not all of it. Some of it. Your clothes. Tonight's supper. Zat's where my money goes. I make sure of it. Nothing else."

One nod. He saw the truth in her eyes and breathed slower to calm his nerves.

"Ulysses showed me around this place. We came upon a class of magical arts." He suppressed his urge either to laugh or to choke and said, "It was the first class of the kind I've ever witnessed."

Claire smiled. "Zat is because ze wizards never gave us ze chance. What did you think of it?"

Now it was his turns to pick through words. "The pupils were more enthusiastic than some Hogwarts students I knew," he answered. "Though they did not seem to have real wands –"

"Real wands are difficult to attain," she replied, "but not impossible."

Again, the unease made him nauseous. "Some of these wolves _have_ wands?"

"I'm not sure exactly, but zose matters I'm not familiar wiz." She paused. "Why do you have zat look on your face?"

"Of what?"

"You don't believe zis, do you?"

"I'm only surprised," he explained quickly. "To think of true-blooded werewolves possessing wands –"

"Do you not think zat is possible?" she said defensively. "It is only a matter of time until we 'ave enough well-trained wizards of our own."

"I'm not sure I understand this." Lupin hesitated, but went on. "Magic cannot manifest itself in beings unless they have wizard blood in them. Even magical creatures do not have conjuring ability unless they are part wizard."

"_Mon Dieu!_ You 'ave been brainwashed by ze wizards, Remus!" she replied, laughing. "Anyone can do magic, even us!"

"It's not that simple," Lupin stressed. It suddenly became very important that she understood this, and he used his professor voice when explaining. "Magical creatures _do_ have magical qualities, that I don't deny, but their magic is contained in their _existence_."

"And zat is exactly why we can do magic," she replied with a child's ease.

"That is why magical creatures _can't_. That is one of the basic laws of magical elements." He sighed. "Try centaurs for instance. They are creatures that are half-horse, half-man. How were they created? How can they still exist? Simple. When centaurs were created – how even Magizoologists don't know – magic fused both human and equine qualities together. Magic kept these creatures alive; it's a part of their very nature. Yet because magic maintains their very existence, there isn't any extra magic elements they can channel to create magic themselves. So give a centaur a wand and they won't even be able to lift a feather with it."

She was quiet for a few moments before replying. "So, what you are saying," she sorted out, "is zat because magical creatures are part magic, zey cannot practice it?"

"Exactly. For humans, magic is _additional_, not _essential_ to their existence. This extra magical quality is what wizards channel in order to conjure."

He hoped that Claire would understand, but she merely scoffed. "Zat is what all wizards say," she explained. "A flimsy excuse for zair oppression."

"Oppression?" Lupin couldn't believe his ears. What he explained was a concept as clear as the earth circling the sun, and she disputed it!

"Everyone is capable of magic," she said with a cold fierceness that he had never seen before. "Ze wizard bourgeois try to enforce zis caste system by suppressing our magical talent. We only need to discover our 'idden truths and zrow off zese wizard lies."

"This is proven fact for over a millennia," Lupin said, shaking his head. "You can't go against nature –"

"Ze wizards are ze ones going against nature!" Claire snapped. "And it is up to us to fight back!"

In her, he saw Jarohnen's intensity flare up like a torch, and this startled Lupin. The unease grew into something almost like dread.

"All of this will come to naught," he countered. "Have any of these werewolves ever touched a wand? The authorities in this place are fooling themselves if they think that –"

"Zen what about Jarohnen?" she said shrilly. "'E killed five wizards wiz one curse!"

"Has it even come into your mind that he could have wizard blood?"

The accusation stopped her cold. "_Impossible!_" she exclaimed. "Jarohnen, part wizard-? What kind of idea is zat? If 'e thought so, 'e would tear 'imself to bits!"

"That's what I've always suspected," Lupin said lowly. "Think about it. How can a werewolf have the power to throw a curse so quickly and so intensely unless he had some wizard blood? And for that curse to be an Unforgivable at that?"

She swallowed hard. "If Jarohnen can do it," she replied coolly, "zan anyone can."

He said in a hard voice, "How can I teach them something that they can never learn?"

"You are only saying zat because you do not want zem to learn," she accused.

"And what if I don't?"

Claire didn't skip a beat. "Zair is no 'don't'! You must!"

"Under whose orders? Yours? Alpha-One's? How come I was never informed about this?"

Her voice grew tense like a taut string. "You can't refuse."

"Am I still my own person, am I not? Or am I not even myself anymore? What am I? The wizard tool known as Remus Lupin?"

Her eyes flashed. "Is zat what you think?"

"How else can I think?"

"Zan you are not Remus Lupin anymore."

"What?"

"We killed him," Claire said, belligerently. "You don't 'ave to be him anymore. You can shed your old life, your wizard life, and start anew."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you understand? Zair is no going back. You can't go and undo what we 'ave done for you! We rescued you leaving a dead body behind!"

_My dead body,_ Lupin thought,_ staring ahead with my dead eyes. _

"Dominic," Claire went on, "went up to Edinburgh only three days ago and a janitor told 'im zat ze wizards left you to rot. Zey left you as good as dead. But ze pack – but _I_ – resurrected you. You are better now zan before. You are not ze criminal. Ze monster. You are free."

A janitor. Lottie. Dominic went up to Edinburgh three days ago and spoke to her… and Lupin remembered – if that could be called remembering – speaking to Lottie _almost two weeks ago about Dominic_… What did that mean? What did it all mean-?

"Then who is this man you freed? Tell, me Claire, if them… if _you_ killed Remus Lupin, then who am I?"

"You are yourself!" Claire snapped. "_Tu es toi-même!_ Why must you keep asking zis? You are _'ere_ and I love you. Isn't zat enough?"

Lupin was silent for a long time.

She loved him. There was never betrayal on her part if she loved him. Then who was the one lying? And why did he feel like he was betraying her? Perhaps he was. Should he stay or should he go? If he stayed, that meant that he was loyal to her, that he loved her in return. But also, if he stayed, that would be disloyal to himself in the highest degree.

Was this what love meant? A choice between yourself and another? Did a person lose himself by conceding to be with someone else?

No, that was not love. That was bondage.

But so many things still did not make sense…

The man by the dungeon door… telling Lottie about Dominic, seeing Harper with his hands wrapped in gauze, living with bouts of _déjà vu_… "_You can't go and undo what we 'ave done for you!"_ But what if it was _already undone? _ The thought was so tremendous that Lupin didn't dare pursue it further.

"Well?" Claire demanded. "Isn't it?"

Then, he said:

"Claire… I can't stay any longer."

"What do you mean?"

She looked so angry. And she had every right to be. But Lupin knew he couldn't be stopped now. Fate, which had been pulling him along all this time, had just hopped a Firebolt and kicked off to the stars.

"I have to now. There's no stopping me."

A scoff. "Why must you go? Wizard law? Ze law is death!"

"It's not the under law's obligation that I go. Wizard law has little meaning to me. It's for her that I'm going Claire. It's my obligation to her which motivates me." _There's no stopping this obligation now,_ he thought. _I've dallied far too long here. But then again, I was meant to stay this long._

"Why?"

"I…" Lupin sighed. "Have you ever felt –" Words suddenly transformed into boulders, and he struggled over them. "Have you ever felt a certain… certain feeling that cleansed yourself? Something that made all the gravity that anchored you to the ground vanish? It was pure and perfect and…"

The final boulder was the expression on Claire's face. The anger had faded. There was no fury or hatred or sadness. A blank wash swept her face, as if all emotion was being drained out through a hole inside.

"Claire-" Lupin got to his feet and her hand clamped down upon his wrist. An unexpected strength pulled him down again.

"Tell me." Her eyes were granite. "Tell me 'ow much ze girl means to you." Her accent, now very distinct, weighed down her words.

_Sirius in the cave. He was leaning against the rough wall, staring away from Lupin. His cheeks were sullen and drawn; his pale eyes were very old and very tired. _

_Déjà vu_ overwhelmed him. _Sirius, I'm sorry. Claire, I'm sorry._ Damn, he sounded like a broken record. Lupin didn't want to apologize to anyone anymore!

"You may not understand now, but I hope you will at least accept this. I can't lead the life you want me to lead. You ask me to become someone else. You ask me to lead a life of lies."

"Don't say zat," Claire snapped thickly. "You know better. You always knew."

_Sirius's eyes were searching the ceiling. His hands, once furiously clenched moments before, were growing slack…_

"Since you came, zair was a look in your eyes zat would not leave. You 'ave become a ghost, Remus. It is like a Dementor sucked out your spirit."

"I know," Lupin whispered. "I was dying, Claire. Dying and I never knew. So when you saw me, the living death that I have become, it frightened you. I had dead eyes. I frightened many people. But now it is time for me to see. And to live."

_The beam of light stretched along the cave floor and touched Sirius's scuffed and worn-out boots. Particles of dust danced within, careless of his vanishing world._

"Live? _I_ want to make you live. I thought I could make you forget."

_The fireside. Sirius's hurt expression, blocked only by the flickering flames. His hand throwing dirt over the fire._

Claire was staring down at her hands. Sirius had looked away. They were in mourning. In mourning for him. But he stood outside of it all and was peering at them, detached, as if from behind a glass wall. And he was alone, yet knew more. More than either of them could ever know. "This is more than love," he said. "If this were about love, I wouldn't have made it this far. I would be in a cave back in Scotland, with my oldest friend."

_Sirius was at the cave opening, seeing Lupin off. His eyes were so distant, so haunting. _

"Don't lie to me."

"I want to tell you a story, Claire."

Her eyes burned with emotion. He wanted to touch her. Slowly, he came closer. With a hesitant hand, he stroked her cheek. She was still. Claire would listen.

"I'll tell you a story," he whispered, "a story I could not tell any one else before, because before I could hardly remember it." He lifted his shirt and raised his left arm. "See this?" he said.

The old scar. The werewolf's bite that tore off bone and flesh.

_Cattails blowing in the wind. Swaying, their pulpy heads nudged against each other while in motion. Rustle of the long grass. And the cold night air with the wind and the cattails stirring with the long grass...._

"I… I can't name it for you exactly, but I think psychology calls it resurfacing, when old memories come back to the human mind. Months, even years after a traumatic event occurs, whatever you block out... it comes back… And the memory doesn't come back randomly, or all at once. There's a trigger, Claire… a trigger that brings everything back into memory… And the Ashwinder bite I received triggered that memory. When I was bitten… when I was lying on the concrete in the Incinerator and dying…. One says that before death your entire life flashes before your eyes. Well, my impending death brought back the memory of another…"

_Something hit against his foot as he stepped into tall grass. Remmy jumped back and glanced down at his feet. His father's dead eyes stared right back at him, as he lay half-in, half-out of the water. His throat torn out so that the sagging muscles showed. A dribble of blood ran down the pale lips of his gaping mouth. Wet crimson covered his clothes and stained the dank water._

"The night of the bite," he closed his eyes and the whole episode played out before him. "I snuck out of my home against my father's wishes… and saw him fight a werewolf in the forest. The werewolf, Lycaos, killed him. He was about to kill me too. I ran, frantically, fearfully, my father's chain in my hand and tripped. I remember large teeth and horrible yellow eyes laced with red. I knew that I was going to die, Claire."

Then Lupin told the story, even the parts he didn't tell the psychologist at St. Mungo's, the part he kept secret to everyone until now….

_"Father..." he moaned, hugging his knees. The sound came out in tight, guttural gasps. He buried his face in his arms and started rocking back and forth, moaning the name over and over again. "Father, Father, come back, Father, Father.... oh please help me...." he whimpered, even though he knew well that his father's corpse lay just a few feet away. He sniffed and wiped his nose._

_ Something sparkled in the moonlight by his feet. Remmy reached over and picked it up. It was Father's silver chain with the little cross, the chain now blood-smeared and broken. Remmy held the bauble to his chest like a talisman._

_Suddenly, he felt a shadow loom over him. Looking up warily, he saw the yellow eyes._

_Remmy jumped to his feet and ran as fast as he could go. But he heard Lycaos's quick paws loping behind him, gaining upon him, coming closer and closer and closer..._

_ He was going faster and faster, but Lycaos gained ground with effortless bounds. A rock blocked his path and Remmy fell. He looked up to see the wolf bearing down on him, jaws wide—_

_ "NO!"_

_ Down he came like a hurricane. The pain was unbearable; all Remmy could see was a bright flash of red before his eyes._

_ The world was whirring like a top spinning in a locked box. The pain—the pain – the pain…._

_ Remmy's limbs flailed, once, twice. _

_ He could see steam rising from his wound in the cold night air._

_ Lycaos's mouth dripped with foamy red and took his arm, hand and all. Remmy felt the slippery, saliva-coated necklace – his father's silver necklace with the silver cross – slip from his fingers and drop._

_ Then, it all happened so fast._

_ The wolf gagged – he spluttered – flakes of foam hit Remmy's face – then out came his arm and he bucked, moving away._

_ Remmy stared with listless eyes as the blood pooled around him. The swamp stench and the redness and the vomit and the death…_

_ Lycaos bent his great head and coughed, dropping its jaws and rolling out its stained, fleshy tongue. His eyes rolled back and he tried to howl – he couldn't – a scratchy wail came out instead –_

_ The werewolf was choking on his father's cross._

_ Remmy vaguely thought of running, but didn't. He couldn't feel his legs anymore._

_ By now, the wolf was frantically shaking his head back and forth, back and forth in an attempt to dislodge the chain necklace from his throat. He hacked in loud, whooping sounds like dragon's wing beats – he banged his shaggy grey-white head against the soggy ground – the loud half-bark, half-gagging noise filled Remmy's ears. _

_ Steam came from the beast's mouth. The metallic stench of silver and burning flesh filled the air._

_ Lycaos flailed about with bulging eyes, then staggered to the nearest tree. Sticking his huge head between two forking branches, the wolf rammed his neck against the wood again and again. He twisted his body about, moving like a whip high in the moonlit air. Then, a half-belch echoed in the air as the wolf purged his stomach._

_ A steaming mass of blood, flesh and dirt splattered upon the ground. _That's my guts,_ Remmy thought light-headedly. _He threw up all my insides…__

_ Lycaos coughed again and tottered away from the tree unsteadily. Giving one last venomous loom at Remmy, he sped away into the forest._

_ Watching its form grow smaller and smaller in the distance, Remmy began hearing voices. Up ahead, there were small lights as sharp as dancing fairies._

_ "Look, he's over there!" A cry of horror. "The Auror, sir, he's –"_

_ "Oh dear gods! Ares's boy is here too! Hurry, get the blankets!"_

_ "I'm cold…" he whispered under his breath._

_ "Remus, you have to stay awake now. We're going to take you to the doctor's. You're going to get all better."_

_ He was already getting better. He was floating away and all of the faces around him become ghost's reflections…_

_ "Where's father…?" He murmured. "I'm cold…"_

_ And as Remmy felt himself be lifted onto thick blankets by the other Hogsmeade villagers, he saw out of the corner of his eye a man kick at the pile of his guts by the tree. Then, something wet and warm dropped in his hand. _

_ "Hold on to this, Remus. Can you feel it in your hand?"_

_ "…"_

_ Voices skimmed the surface of his mind._

_ "Hurry, David! Get the Healer over here!"_

_ "Hold on; he's coming!"_

_ "Someone, get that mess together over there! It's the boy's!"_

_ That same voice, hovering. "Remus, I want you to stay awake. Can you feel it in your hand?"_

_ "…yes…"_

_ "Good boy, good boy! Now, I just want you to hold onto it as tight as you can, all right? Hold on to this as tight as you can. Never get go. Don't fall asleep. Promise?"_

_ "…yes… I promise…"_

_ Remmy closed his eyes, feeling the slime-covered silver cross in his hand. He held it so tightly it made an imprint in his palm._

"…and that's what I remember Claire. That's everything that I remember."

By the end of the story, Lupin noticed that he was holding both of Claire's hands in his. She had her head down so low that all he could see was the smooth black hair and the pale line where it parted.

He wet his lips and said softly and gently, "I woke up in the home of the village Healer. I could remember voices…. Whispering over my body…. They said I was going to die… My intestines, my liver were torn out…. There was massive internal bleeding… Twenty-five cubic centimetres of skin gone…. My leg broken… And the actual disease of lycanthropy, that was indescribable…I didn't know any of this until after I fully recovered, and I didn't understand the impact of it until even later. But I lived, Claire, when I should have died." The finally came to the truth. "I was saved that night," he whispered, "and when my faith faltered, I was saved again and again from myself. I know that now."

"What… what are you trying to tell me?" Claire whispered in a tight voice.

He stroked her hair. "It's finally time I come to terms with who I really am and what I believe in," he answered in a stronger voice. "I believe in justice, if nothing else. This has nothing to do with you, nothing against you. This is about me being able to look myself in the mirror and say, 'I am Remus Lupin,' and be contented with those words. I know how selfish that sounds to you, but I can't ignore my duty. I only hope you understand."

"What are you trying to tell me…?" she repeated.

"You know, Claire."

Silence.

_"Non!"_ Claire jerked away from his grasp. "You idiot," she hissed. "You idiot!"

"You must-"

"_You think zair is a God!_" she snapped, furious. "_Non!_ No God or ancestors or spirits or anything! Why must you say zat-? Out of all ze stupid, selfish reasons in ze world, why must you say zat? Why??"

"Because." His vision turned glassy. "Because."

"You can't be talking about zis, you can't be saying zis to _me_ and- and…" Her eyes grew wide. "Toby said you talked to no one," she whispered.

"What do you mean?"

"You speak to people who aren't 'ere… You think crazy things are real memories…"

"Claire, I'm telling the truth!"

"You don't know ze truth, Remus! Look around you!" She pounded her fist into her dead, frozen knee. "Zair is no purpose!" she cried. "Why did you say zat? You think _you_ are _so_ special? Zat someone else loves _you_ so much more zan… zan –? Oh, zair is no purpose! Only… only mistakes…." A hiccup escaped her throat.

Claire bent forward and tucked her head in her arms. "You selfish bastard…" she croaked. "You selfish, deluded bastard…"

Lupin reached for her again.

"Don't." She glared at him with a pained expression. In a bitter, proud voice she said, "I always _knew_ you were better zan us. Your 'eart is so _good_ it rises above ze rest of ze world."

She moved backwards towards the door, her eyes not leaving his face. "Guards," she whispered.

"You can't do this."

"Guards–!" she screamed, exiting the room.

Two black figures appeared in the hallways. Lupin stood up.

"You can't stop–" he started.

_Slam!_

His door shut and several clicks echoed as the locks turned.

"_Remus est devenu fou! Il a une hantise religieuse qui le rend aliéné! Il est folle! Absolutement fou!"_

_"Claire, qu'est-ce que c'est passé?"_ Ulysses fumbled awkwardly. _"Je ne compend pas. Essaie en anglais maintenant. Lentement."_

_"It est un fou, __un bâtard, un imbecile!"_

_"Parles lentement."_ Ulysses took hold of her shoulders. _"En anglais. S'il te plaît."_

"So mad!" she raged, flinging her arms out. "Remus's pup is controlling all of 'is thoughts. Toby was right when 'e thought zair was something wrong wiz 'im! Zair is _so much_ wrong wiz Remus! 'E has gone insane! 'E has gone mad!"

Her eyes flashed and this time they were the colour of a razor's edge. "Remus wants to leave," she said through gritted teeth. "Remus wants to go to trial. Wizard trial!" A grievous moan. "T'ink about zat! 'E wants to be murdered. 'E wants to die…"

A fanatic, Lupin was a fanatic! Oh, Claire should have suspected this; after all, he did read that Bible to Mary at night, and he had worn that cross with him as well…. He was like her family, with the pointless teachings and traditions and stupid rituals and prayers. He was like her brother – another religious fool! Except while Bernard only practiced, Remus was _so much worse_…

What was wrong with those people!? Those reluctant, passive fools? Letting the world walk all over them. Taking comfort in lies and false hopes. They tolerated the world. They hid away in little cages called religion with bars hammered by their so-called God! Suffer and hope, suffer and hope and _resign_! But when someone tried to break the cage, tried to bend the divine bars, that person is mocked as a fool. A fool by other fools sitting in their cages, hoping to be free when their copses become rotten on the cold floor. Those people called _her_ crazy. Like _she_ was the one who was ignorant.

It was Mary's fault, all Mary's fault. For the first time, snake-eyed jealousy clouded her mind. How many times had he thought of the girl and not her? Did Remus love Mary more than he loved her?

Bitter pain, sharper and crueller with experience. Roger Parsons had assaulted her body, but Remus Lupin had assaulted her soul.

"Impossible!" Ulysses gasped.

Claire's head bobbed up and down like a doll's. "_Mais c'est vrai! C'est vrai!_" Her voice cracked. "_Il est un fou!_"

Ulysses was taken back by such news. "But why? It doesn't make sense…."

"I do not know! Yet it is what 'e _believes_ in…" A sarcastic scoff. "Who does Remus think 'e is?"

"We can't let him die," Ulysses declared.

"We cannot," Claire agreed.

"Did he speak of escapin'?"

"I do not think 'e will try tonight. Maybe later…"

"Who?"

Both raised their heads. Jarohnen Ianikit lowered his hood as he stepped into the room.

"Jaroh, it seems like our wizardin' werewolf is sufferin' from a Jehovah complex," Ulysses informed him.

Lupin woke up the next morning to find three cloaked figures surrounding his cot.

_Wolf by Ears_ will continue…


	10. Fight vs Flight

**Additional Disclaimer: Excerpt from the song, "Grace of God I Go," by Flogging Molly is used in the Chapter 36.**

**Author's Note: After a long hiatus, I'm finally continuing with _Wolf by Ears._ Thank you for your patience, and a little word of advice: it would probably be best if you went over the Parts 8 and 9 before reading this, or you might get a bit confused...**

**I would also like to thank my beta readers Liz and Ilana. Special thanks goes out to Livia Liana for her editing and advice. **

**And also, thank you to all the readers and reviewers out there, who kept me motivated to keep on writing! :D**

Wolf by Ears

Part Ten: Fight vs. Flight

By D.M.P.

The difficulty in life is the choice.

- George Moore, ­_The Bending of the Bough, Act iv._

There is no difference between Time and any of the three dimensions of Space except that our consciousness moves along it.

- H.G. Wells,_ The Time Machine_

Chapter 34

"Get your cloak on."

It was Ulysses. A cloth covered the lower part of his face; Lupin didn't recognize him at first. But now, with the sleep shaken from his eyes, he could tell who the two other figures were as well: Jarohnen and Alpha One.

Lupin got up with stiff knees and put his cloak on. He noticed that both Ulysses and Alpha One had strange bulges under their cloaks. The Gaczyna pack leader's cloak opened and Lupin saw the dull muzzle of a semi-automatic rifle. Lupin stared at the weapon for a few moments and fastened his cloak. Giving all three a grave stare, he silently complied as they led him out of his room and headed above ground.

They made their way through the dust-dry land. The air had a slight chill, making each breath seem sharper and more poignant that ever before. Or perhaps his senses only sharpened when he knew his life wouldn't last much longer…

Making their way up through the scrub lands, Lupin saw small rodents moving past his feet toward their dens. Lazy flies hovered low to the ground, brushing against his legs. For once, there was no sound of ammunition that morning and Lupin didn't wonder why.

He couldn't tell how he felt at that moment. His brain was divided into two, equally-matched camps: one was raging, screaming, infuriated at his own stupidity. That part of his brain chided him for what he had said to Claire, bemoaned lost chances to see Sirius or Harry again, and ridiculed his fate as something justly deserved for his foolishness. The other side was at complete peace. It knew that whatever happened at that moment, he would be safe from harm. It knew the logic of his tumbled visions and mixed up emotions of the past fortnight. It said in a quiet and calm voice, not unlike his own speaking voice: "Wait and see. You won't stay here much longer. You can't."

In the meantime, his body was in a cold sweat.

Up ahead, Lupin saw another trio. For a second, he hoped for and dreaded the possibility that one of them would be Claire, but he only saw three men upon closer approach. Two were from Gaczyna; the third he had never seen before. His face was bruised and swollen; his clothes were rumpled and torn in several places. This man stood out even more because he actually wore robes, not the army uniform like everyone else. On his sleeve was a red armband with a small badge beneath it. Lupin then realised that that man was a wizard.  
"You stand with us," Ulysses whispered, gesturing with the gun  
to the spot beside him.  
Alpha One addressed the two wolves holding the wizard. _"Suéltenlo."_  
The soldiers let the wizard go and the man crumbled to his knees, shoulders sagging, head bowed. His whole body swayed back and forth as if about to topple over as the wolf leader gave out his orders.

_Where did this wizard come from?_ he wondered. Then, he recollected the doors underground the night of the full moon. Where Claire had been locked up. This wizard – he was the man behind the first door.  
Raising an arm, Alpha One pointed to a bush about 50 metres away  
from where they stood. _"Va a correr allí. Pusimos su varita en aquel arbusto."_  
Lupin wondered what he said, but needn't to for long. "You will run to there," Ulysses translated quietly. "We put your wand in that bush."  
"_Si puede correr allí en un minuto, la varita estará suya."_  
"If you can run to there in one minute, then the wand is yours."

_"Si no, se mataremos a tiros."_

"If not, you will be shot."  
_"¿Entiende?"_  
"You understand?"

For a moment, Lupin couldn't tell if the wizard had listened at all.  
Then, with obvious strain, the man lifted his head. "_Al diablo contigo,"_ he spat.   
Instantly, one of the guards kicked him in the side. The wizard hit the ground, but did not moan. Hearing the man speak, Lupin confirmed that he was the groaning man who was locked up next to Claire during the full moon.

_"¿Se está aprovechando de nuestra generosidad?"_ Alpha One said flatly. _"A usted le damos pie para vivir."_

"Are you takin' advantage of our generosity?" Ulysses repeated in English. "We are givin' you a chance to live."  
Lupin felt his insides turn cold. He did not express any of his feelings, however; he stared down at the beaten wizard with the same bland expression the other wolves had.  
The wizard's laboured breathing was the only sound for the next few minutes. He raised his head and, by coincidence, met with Lupin's eyes. In his dark gaze, Lupin felt the wrath of a complete stranger so intensely that it hurt, like fire brushing his skin.  
The Gaczyna wolf motioned his head and the guards pulled the man back up. Alpha One then took out a small stopwatch from within the folds of his cloak. _"¿Está listo?"_ The small click hit their ears like the stab of a pin. _"Corra."_

At first, Lupin believed that the wizard would have waited out his time. Yet slowly, painfully, he took one step. Then another.

_"…cinco... seis.... siete.... ocho..."_

The wizard turned half a step toward the wolves. In response, Ulysses raised his gun and pointed it at the other man's chest. _"Nueve,"_ he counted. _"Diez... once... doce..."_

Lupin braced himself. Watching, he saw the Spanish wizard turn, teeter on his feet a bit, and stare blankly at the shrub in the distance. An unknown emotion crossed his face, and then, he went.

The wizard ran, dragging his dead ankle, running, running, running, his arms pumping, his gasping breath filled the air. He flew across the ground like a wild beast during its final run, as if knowing that although this was the last damn thing he did, he was still going to do it right…. The distance narrowed, and hope surged into Lupin's heart, knowing that the other man felt it too… and the wizard was boring down closer and closer to his destination… Lupin could see the man's wand, a sliver in the distance … faster and faster… He was going to make it, he was getting there… _"Cincuenta-cinco, Cincuenta-seises_"... and the man reached out his hand toward the bush-

_Keow!_

The sniper bullet seemed to tear the sky in half as the sound echoed in the quiet morning. The wizard collapsed, dead. A cloud of dust swirled up where he fell.

Alpha One nodded his head. At that signal, two soldiers loped easily toward the fallen man and hauled him back.

The sniper, wearing a cap low over his eyes, jogged over to them. The three turned and Lupin did too. To his amazement, Lupin could see red hair stick out from under the cap.

"Ya did well," Jarohnen told Toby. He looked over at Ulysses. "That was 100 metres?"

"Yup."

Toby stared ahead, at attention. His sniper rifle was held up along one side. Whether reaction he had from killing the man, he kept concealed. The guard carried the dead wizard past them. Alpha raised his hand for them to stop and looked over at the body. The shot came out clean, right through the centre of the forehead. The man's face was sprinkled with blood, and a thin crimson line ran along the ridge of his nose.

Lupin noticed Toby leaning forward, trying to catch the face of the dead man, but the three wolves turned their attention to him again and he fell back into position.

"Good," Alpha One said in a heavy voice. "Good shot."

"I told you he had potential," Ulysses said proudly. "I've been trainin' him with tin cans ever since he was twelve."

"We will take him," said Alpha One.

One of the guards presented the dead Spaniard's wand to Jarohnen. He took it and tossed it from hand to hand, almost playfully. He propped it lengthwise between his two index fingers, squinted at it analytically, and then held it in front of Lupin.

"It's yours, if ya want it," he said.

Was this a trap? The wolves, all except Toby who was still at attention, watched for his response. Lupin looked at the wand, then at their guns, then at the other wolves. If he took the wand, he could be free in an instant. He could Apparate himself someplace safe, away from all of this. Did they know that? Were they setting him free? Or were they trying to condemn him?

"You'll need it to teach, right?" Ulysses asked.

Lupin took it as his cue to take the wand from the Russian wolf. His fingers clenched around the wood. The sunlight glinted from their guns. Then, Lupin noticed the fresh blood on the wand, which came off on his hands. "It's not fitted for me," he said, offering it back. "The wand must choose its owner, not the other way around."

Jarohnen accepted the wand with a cool glance. "But of course, comrade," he said. "How stupid it was for me to think otherwise." With that, he snapped the wand in half.

A bright light flared up from the match as it struck the cinderblock wall. Dominic held it up to his cigarette and then waved his hand, extinguishing the flame. "So, he went with them?"

"I saw them leave this morning." Antonia replied. She was heading out to scout the borders with some other wolves soon; she was tying her hair back with a length of cloth.

"Do you think he's dead?"

Antonia paused, letting her half-done hair fall. She replied, "If he is, then I'm not complaining. It's no use to speak of a wizard fighting against us."

"Yeah…" Dominic blew a smoke ring, and ran his slim fingers through his cropped hair. "I heard from Ulysses that he was some religious psycho."

"A religious psycho?" Antonia commented, "Maybe. But he's also a wolf, no different from us."

At that moment, Toby entered the barracks, clutching the sniper rifle to his chest. Wordlessly, he went over to his bed, opened up the weapon case that lay on it, and began mechanically to disassemble his gun. The two other wolves were silent for a moment, before Dominic spoke.

"So," he asked, "how'd it go?"

Toby turned around and stared at him blankly. He sat down on the cot for a moment and put his head in his hands. Antonia and Dominic exchanged wary glances.

The woman moved toward him, extending a gentle hand. "It's always like that with your first," she began. "Death is a funny thing to see."

Dominic scoffed and turned away. " 'Bout time you figured out this isn't a game, pup," he spat, blowing smoke.

Antonia's hand hovered over the teenager's shoulder when he suddenly straightened up.

"It was red," Toby said in a quiet voice.

"What?" Antonia asked. "His blood?"

"Yeah." Toby looked at his hands for a split second before leaping onto his feet. "It was feckin' awesome!" he cried, jumping to his feet. "I was up on the hill, looking through the scope and I see him, running down, and I'm thinking, 'My God, I've never seen a wizard run so fast!'" He posed with the invisible gun in his hands. "And this is so different from shootin' rabbits or birds or anythin' I did before. This bloke was hittin' it hard, like he knew that I had my spec on him the whole time. And I just waited until he got to the bush and, 'Bang!'" He shot the imaginary bullet and threw up his hands. "Like that. Like _that_," he said, snapping his fingers.

"So, the puppy likes the sight of blood," Dominic drawled with a twisted smile.

"It was such a rush," Toby exclaimed. "I felt like a god. He was just so… so _dead._ It was unbelievable."

Antonia clapped her hand on his back and smiled. "You shot your first man," she said softly. "You'll do fine now." She left the room with a wistful air about her.

"When they carried the body back, I got to touch him," Toby said to Dominic. He held out his right hand as if it was a prized possession and stared at it, enraptured. "The wizard was still warm, Dom. It was like I never killed him at all."

The wizard served as a warning; Lupin knew that much. He sat on his cot, remembering the empty expression on the man's face. One wrong move and that anonymous man could be him.

The absolute cold-bloodedness of it all disturbed him the most. Their hawkish stares, the distant morning sun, the desperateness of that poor wizard who never had a chance at all… Lupin let his eyes close. After, Lupin caught sight of Toby brushing his hand up against the dead man's face when the soldiers were carrying him back. The boy, not even nineteen years old, fawned over a human being as if he was a big game kill. It made him sick.

Not even during his years in the Order, when Voldemort's terror reigned, did Lupin ever reduce himself to that. He had never killed a man before, and all of those wolves knew it; just like how he could see the bloodstain in their eyes, they could see how he remained unmarked. That was why they tempted him with that wand. Because they knew Lupin was the type of man who would never take it.

Was all of this a game to them? Damn, it wasn't. That was the entire point.

Why had Lupin told Claire about Lycaos last night? Why hadn't he kept quiet and plotted to escape behind their backs?

The questions weren't rhetorical. In fact, Lupin knew that he told Claire for a very important reason: because he wanted her to understand.

With a soft set of clicks, his door unlocked for the second time that morning. Claire stood in the threshold.

Stood. Her face appeared wan and strained, sweat beaded on her brow, and the two titanium crutches that supported her wobbled for a moment. Still, her eyes glowed and her chin was raised as if held up by iron. Ulysses stood by her. He still had his gun. A set of guards loomed behind them like shadows.

"Hello Claire."

"_Âllo _Remus."

"How are you doing?"

"_Comme si, comme ça._ Considering ze circumstances."

"True, considering."

A pause.

"I'm going back."

"To France?"

"_Oui."_

Her arms gave out a bit and she began to slip. Lupin stood half-way up, but Ulysses grabbed her arm and steadied her against him. Uncertainly, Lupin sat back down and folded his hands in his lap.

"I didn't mean it," he said.

"Mean what?" Claire said, breathing hard. She slumped against Ulysses's shoulder.

"To hurt you."

With a cynical and sarcastic tone in her voice, she replied, "Why should I be 'urt? Or, in zat case, why should you be considerate if I am?"

Lupin looked at her without saying a word. Claire turned her face away and looked over at the wall, biting her lower lip. "You don't understand ze world," she told him. "You see wiz dead eyes focussing on ze ghosts of ideals."

From outside, Lupin caught the shouts of the young troops going through artillery drills.

"I know zis will be 'ard for you to grasp. Jarohnen said it would take time, and I know 'e is right. Time will pass and you will see the terrible reality we live in."

A chorus of metal clicks as each gun cocked.

"You… you 'ave zese thought zat are driving you insane because you cannot see reality."

Gunshots rattled the air.

"You see ze wrong world."

Firing.

"But we will show you ze right one."

Stopping.

"Remus?"

Reloading.

"Are you listening?"

Lupin lifted his head. Her voice was so flat and listless he didn't know whether it was the real Claire talking to him or whether she was being propped up like Ulysses's marionette. Lupin wanted to hold her and scream at her at the same time, but he couldn't rouse the energy to do either.

"Am I crazy?" he said calmly. "Do you honestly believe I am crazy?" With searching eyes, he looked to her face for any signs of doubt.

An unflinching gaze in return. One cold syllable. "Yes." Lips opened, lips closed, as if pulled by a string. She balanced herself again, with Ulysses's hand remaining on her arm. "I must go," she said, voice cracking at the last word. "You'll be better soon."

She cleared her throat discreetly while Ulysses murmured something in her ear.

Unexpectedly, Lupin said, "He needed to leave, if I remember correctly."

Both looked up. "Who?" she asked.

"The Little Prince," Lupin said. "He needed to find his place in the universe. That's why he left. His planet was too small for him."

Claire stared at him for a few moments. Then, she replied, "This is different."

"He missed the flower in the end. And he went back to her."

"Zat isn't how ze story went." She frowned. "Ze snake bit him and 'e died."

"Maybe he just went home."

"And maybe ze sheep ate ze flower too." Claire turned away quickly. Lupin didn't get up when they shut the door again.

Stupid wolf, the fool, the idiot, the bastard-

"You holdin' up?"

The fool, the damned fool, the wretched, self-deluded, egocentric, fanatical buffoon –

_"Oui."_

She slipped again, but Ulysses grabbed her arm with both hands and pulled her up. "Why-"

"Practice," she hissed, wincing. Clumsily, she steadied herself again, took a few breaths, and continued down the hall. Her crutches jutted out when she took a step, her right leg barely moving, her left one completely limp.

Ulysses wrapped his arm around her waist and helped her forward bearing the brunt of her weight. It was obvious that he was pushing her more than she could move herself, but he didn't comment. They reached her room and Claire sunk down into her wheelchair, the crutches jutting out askew before she removed them and threw them on the bed. Rubbing her upper arms where the metal arm cuff had pressed into her skin, she said, "What is going to 'appen to Remus?"

Ulysses scratched a spot right under his chin, eyes distracted. She knew he did that when he had to give an answer he knew she wouldn't like.

Claire glanced up. "You won't 'arm 'im, will you?" she asked.

Not that she cared about Remus now. The traitor, the selfish twit, the inconsiderate lout.

"Sometimes a dog's got to be whipped into obedience," he replied slowly, "if only to learn how to accept treats from his master's hand."

She didn't like that analogy. "Don't try to fool me," she said fiercely.

"Nothin' would happen that he didn't bring upon himself," the Texan wolf pointed out.

She stared at her hands. How could she have given herself to him so easily? To be used, then cast aside for an almost imaginary girl?

"We did everything we could to make him want to stay," Ulysses told her. "Jaroh told him all the things that would convince any normal, feeling wolf to stay. Sometimes, though, it just doesn't work that way."

Claire did a double-take. "What do you mean, 'Jaroh told 'im…?'"

"Appeals to the heart. Lupin did care about you, right? Jarohnen told him you were, um, accosted by that wizard Parsons – "

"You did what?"

"It's the truth. We knew that you'd never tell Lupin that you were raped-"

"What?"

"Well, you didn't ever wonder why he never asked you himself why you used a wheelchair? Because Jarohnen told him about that night after he woke up."

Claire swallowed hard, her ears turning red. "But…"

"Hey, I didn't mean to sound rough about it, but it's the truth. He asked me that night about what happened to you, and I told him to talk with Jarohnen about it. Jarohnen told the whole thing. I'm sorry if you didn't want it that way-"

Had Jarohnen told Lupin a lie in order to guilt-trip him into staying? If Jarohnen said that Claire sacrificed her life for Lupin—

Disgust and guilt filled her soul. Claire had never even thought of Lupin once that night! She was only afraid, like a weakling would be afraid, and had used the mask of pride to cover her cowardice. She had never been noble or self-sacrificing….

Was that the foundation of his love? Pity? _Pity?_ _Mon Dieu_, why hadn't she realised that before? Only in her highest fantasies could anyone possibly love-

The thought was cut off. Why should she focus on that now? Remus would have to stay here anyway; she had to go back into the real world now. Her brother would be returning soon.

"D'you want to be alone?"

"You don't need to ask," she replied in a steely voice.

Ulysses paused at the doorway, then left without another word.

Claire gazed ahead with the eyes of a helpless woman and for the first time in a long time looked exactly how she felt: abandoned. Putting her hands to her face, she rubbed her eyes furiously. Suddenly it seemed as if her chest had locked itself up into a tight, knot; she couldn't breathe. Claire gagged, hit her fists against the arms of her chair and coughed, once, twice. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe.

A bitter cough came out again, and Claire grabbed the nearest thing at hand, a pitcher from the bedside table. She threw it against the wall. It crashed, spilling water, then bounced off the plaster wall toward her feet. With a quiet growl, she took the tin container up against and began hitting it against the wall.

She knew people could hear her in the hallways; she knew, but didn't care. Remus could he hearing it in his room and she wouldn't care. Damn him, damn him and his crazy delusions! Damn him and everything in the universe that worked against her! She clenched her teeth and a strained scream came out, tattered like cobwebs.

Toby should have killed him today! Jarohnen should have shot him in the head; Ulysses should hang him like the dog he was; the guards should beaten him to death. Martyrdom, wasn't that was what Remus wanted? To be martyred? Well, fine then, he could be put to death here and she couldn't care! She wouldn't even have a drop of compassion for him, that manipulative fool! That foolish believer! That- that- that _wizard_!

And the pain only grew worse inside her chest with every mental insult she threw at him. Claire couldn't understand why.

The pitcher was beaten into a hunk of deformed metal by now. She gave it one more throw and made a pit in the plaster when the jagged lump hit the wall.

Quickly, Claire moved out of her room. There were other wolves in the hall, but the veil-eyed recruits did not even cast a glance at her as she passed. Dominic was crossing the main hall. He stopped for a second, saw her face, turned about, and headed in the opposite direction. She made her way up the ramp and waited tensely as two of the young soldiers held the underground latch open for her. No one questioned where she was going.

She needed to breathe again. Claire bit her lower lip as her arms worked the wheelchair. She took the widest path out of the camp, also the one she and Remus had always used. Making it far enough so that the camp was a toy model in the distance, Claire stopped, put the brake on and slumped forward, panting.

In her exhaustion the same question plagued her, cutting through her anger.

Why had Jarohnen told him? Had he been the one to manipulate Remus into pitying her, of feeling some sort of life-debt to her? So he would stay at the camp and play the Magical Professor to new troops?

Had Jarohnen used her?

Wicked thought! Remus was the one who had hurt her; Jarohnen had nothing to do with it!

Claire felt herself slip from her seat and she fell, noiselessly, to the dirt. A hiccup escaped her throat and she inhaled the chalky dust, coughing.

But it had to be one or the other, correct? So, perhaps this was all a misunderstanding; perhaps Remus felt guilty on his own, the pathetic loser. Maybe, maybe it was all his fault then. Why was she even adding Jarohnen to the equation? No, what a stupid idea!

Her conscience reassured, Claire groped for the seat of her chair. She struggled to pull herself back up; it wasn't easy without someone else to aid her. Inch by inch,, muscles straining, she got herself back into her chair. When she finally did, she inhaled the fresh air deep into her lungs. It felt good.

Up above, she noticed a small form turning circles. A bird. But this bird was more unusual than the occasional desert hawk. Claire shaded her eyes for a better look. An owl?

Shouts in the distance made her look down again. Two soldiers aimed their guns and fired at the owl. Their shots only frightened it, for it turned circles through the air, shedding feathers in its fear. One of the bullets pierced straight through the owl, and the bird plummeted toward the ground, screeching.

The bird hit the ground a few yards away from her. Claire pushed her chair to it and picked up the poor creature from the ground. Dark red smeared its feathers; the owl was already dead. Attached to its leg was a tiny message tied with string. Claire yanked it off. What was a messenger owl doing here? Only Mercury, the girl soldier was used to deliver messages. Owls were never trusted, for they could easily be intercepted.

She unrolled the message. Was this some unfortunate owl passing by? Or was it something more?

Reading it, she blinked once in surprise and stuffed the note in her pocket. By this time, the two soldiers were loping toward her.

"The owl?" one asked with a soft Spanish accent.

Claire gave the limp bird to him. The wolf checked its legs and said, roughly, "This is an English bird. Was there a message?"

She shook her head. "It must 'ave fell off," she told them.

The other one whispered in Spanish to his comrade. He nodded and tipped his cap to Claire in dismissal before both of them ran back to camp.

When they were gone, she hurried to her room. There, facing a corner, she felt safe enough to unfold the paper once more.

The message hit a spark in her memory. Remus had mentioned these names off-hand, when they had sat together in the sun during their endless conversations.

_Moony,_

_ Are you there? The trial's starting over here. Better get back soon._

_- Padfoot_

There was a small marking in the corner, almost like a needless scribble. After staring at the message for a long, long time, Claire leaned her head against the wall. _What a fool_, she thought. _A merciless fool._

Then: _I am such an idiot._

Chapter 35

In times likes these, Lupin wished he had a watch. He had one, but it had been taken away when he was searched before being escorted down to the dungeons back in Edinburgh. He wanted nothing fancy, just a slip of leather with a dial on it, so whenever reality seemed to lose its meaning, he could look at his wrist and think, "At least I know it's 2:41."

Now Lupin was keeping track of the date in his mind. March 28th. It was a shame he couldn't have recognized this sooner; that way, he could have written everything down beforehand. But now…

In his hands he held a small scrap of paper. It had been slipped beneath his door, or some reason or another, by a stranger. But upon reading it, Lupin realised that only one person in this camp could have given him this message, knowing full well who wrote it.

_ Moony,_

_ Are you there? The trial's starting over here. Better get back soon._

- _Padfoot_

And in the corner, almost a scribble to be ignored, was a picture. A badly drawn picture, of course, but Sirius was never an artist. And Lupin recognize what the scribble was, because it was a familiar object that he had known about before, when a particular student used it last year to be able to double-up on her courses.

The Time Turner.

What he had suspected before was true. His strange visions here were a reflection of either two things: that 1) he was going insane or 2) that two Lupins were existing at once. Though considering the circumstances past and present, Lupin could have just been going around the bend, but that explanation was not the case. He was not a quantum-physics expert, but he did know enough about Time Turners to know how the contraptions work.

The dimension of time had always been a dangerous and tricky field of study; it had even been rumoured that further investigations were being conducted in the Department of Mysteries. Time Turners were only perfected a few years ago, and not many people advocated their use. When Professor McGonagall persuaded the Ministry to let Hermione Granger use one for her studies, it was a revolutionary event.

The use of Time Turners had not been completely perfected, however. Time is a tricky dimension to play with, anyway; catastrophes, like all the wizard-Muggle conflicts throughout history, or even the last war with Voldemort, can't be undone with the aid of time travel. In fact, time can be turned back for only a limited amount without any side-effects. If Hermione wanted to go back in time for two hours in order to take her Divination class and her Muggle Studies course, for example, she would be able to do so without any implications. For longer periods of time, such as days, or even weeks, a "double effect" would occur, where the single person exists in two places at once. That, Lupin reasoned, was why he was experiencing things both at the Gaczyna camp and back in Edinburgh: because he existed in both places simultaneously. But in order for him to do that, it would mean that he would have to go back in time at some point, back to Edinburgh and re-experience all those events.

Lupin sat down and traced a calendar in the dirt on the floor. The visions started around March 14th, the first morning he woke up at the camp. That would mean that when he had gone back in time, he would have gone back at least a day beforehand. His trial date was approaching. So some time close in the future, an opportunity would come for Lupin to perform the act of time travel.

It was very reassuring, in a way, that his future was so secure. Still, many questions remained: How was he supposed to get this Time Turner? How did he escape from the camp in the first place? Obviously, Sirius didn't send over the magical device with the owl for certain reasons: it was too valuable to be lost, of course, but also, Lupin wasn't supposed to go back in time while at the camp. If he was supposed to, then he would have had a "double-experience" with him being at the camp, not back in Edinburgh. This meant that although Lupin knew that he was going back to Scotland, he knew that he had to get there on his own.

Not only that, but how in the world did Sirius get a hold of a Time Turner anyway? All of the devices were heavily guarded by the Ministry. Lupin knew of only one person outside of the Ministry who was ever capable of handling a Time Turner, and that was Dumbledore himself. Does that mean that both of them had teamed reconnected again back at Hogwarts? Could be.

But why was this note given to Lupin? Did the other wolves on camp suspect him of escaping? Was this whole thing another absurd game, where they tempt him with a chance to flee only to use it as an excuse to kill him?

Frankly, Lupin was becoming sick of ethical problems, sick of complex situations, and sick of people trying to screw around with his head.

He looked at his hands. If the flashbacks to his second present have just started, that could only mean that his existence in this place was growing thin. Raising his eyes, he stared at the whitewashed wall before him. His mind narrowed down its priorities from the general goal of "Live Another Day" to the more specific one of "Getting the Hell Out of Here." Through the small slit of a window near the ceiling, he saw the light come through, and the constant clamour of the wolves practicing in the field. He jumped on top of his bed and pressed himself up against the wall. His eyes managed to peer out from the tiny opening to see only the swirling dust that got into his eyes.

But his ears were still open. A distant soldier shouted, "_Mercury está aquí."_

Mercury was here. He angled his face upwards and could see the distant figure throw off her Invisibility cloak, reappearing on the ground, her feet flashing gold.

The girl with the winged boots.

But someone was reading his mind that night. Looking back, Lupin couldn't out put his finger on exactly what the difference was in the atmosphere: something ominous, something waiting, something almost predictable. Or being exactly predictable, since he knew – somewhat – what was supposed to take place.

Lupin knew that he had to find a way out of the room. The thought about how much he was worth to the rebel wolves came to mind. Would they open up the door if they saw him injured, or, perhaps, dying? Would they even care? Possibly. So, in the middle of the night of March 28th, Lupin sat on his cot, idly contemplating ways to fake a suicide attempt, when, suddenly, his door opened.

"I know what you're planning."

Lupin looked over. "And what may that be?" he asked softly.

Claire turned away. "Follow me."

Remembering her puppet act from earlier, he hesitated. "Why should I?"

"Because if you don't, you'll never get out of 'ere alive."

"That's an ultimatum that's been suggested a lot lately."

She stopped, but didn't smile. "Shut ze door behind you."

He did. "Wait here. I know a better route." Claire said. She paused at the usual corner, seemed to listen for a few moments, then headed in the opposite direction away from the main corridors. Silently, they moved down the darkened hallways. But this was a place that never slept; Lupin could see the shadows of soldiers, like ghosts, move out of the corner of his eye.

They stopped by another room far from his, a stock room brimming with bags of provisions and barrels of dried beans and vegetables. She wheeled herself inside, then grabbed a bundle from one of the middle shelves. "Put zis over your clothes," she ordered.

Lupin untangled what appeared to be a large cloak that Mercury wore while she flew. "An Invisibility Cloak," he murmured.

"Zey are playing war games tonight," she told him. "It's a training exercise. If you wear ze cloak, it's not likely zey'll shoot you."

"Shoot me? What kind of exercise is this?"

"Hunting wizards." Claire gave a crooked grin. "Nothing you should worry about." She pulled out a sack as well, which moved about as if a small animal was trapped inside. Removing the sack, Claire held out the pair of winged boots. The laces were tied around the tops of the boots where the wings were attached, but the footwear struggled in her grip. "Take zis." She threw the boots to Lupin. He caught them with both arms, dropping the robes. "It isn't easy to control zem, so 'ere is ze staff to 'elp counter-balance your feet."

However, he didn't make a move to put them on. "Why are you doing this?"

She took out Mercury's staff as well, which had a rag tied around the top to restrain the pair of silver wings that fluttered there. "You know why."

Lupin's eyes darted out the doorway of the strange room. No one was out there as far as he could tell. But was this but another exercise? Was Toby going to shoot him in the back, or would he wait with a sniper rifle until he got outside? "No, I don't."

Claire gave a hollow laugh. "I don't 'ave to state ze obvious. You were planning to escape, weren't you?" Lupin didn't say a word. "Zat owl zat came today? You 'ave a friend on ze outside waiting for you. It's all planned out somehow. Don't try to fool me into thinking zat you are not doing zis?"

The note. Sirius wrote him the note because he knew that it was the motivating factor for Lupin's escape. If this whole time theory worked, then Sirius would have only known to send the note if someone told him… and that someone might as well have been Lupin himself….

But why was_ she_ helping him then? Her eyes flashed like steel, cold and distant. Lupin saw no warmth anymore, and had the ugly feeling that she was locking a part of herself inside.

"And so… so you're helping me..?" he managed to say, trying to clear his puzzled mind.

"I know zat you stayed 'ere because of what I did for you and…ze girl. But I am not a saint," she whispered, "whatever sacrifice I made zat Jarohnen told you about was not true. When I was at the Ministry, under interrogation…" She closed her eyes, swallowed hard, then opened them again, "…I did not become a paralytic because of some selfless act of devotion. It was an accident. A mistake. I did not drink ze Wolfsbane Potion because I was scared. _Because I was scared._ Not because I loved you."

Lupin was struck dumb by her words. He opened his mouth slightly, but nothing came out.

"I was not sure I loved you back zen, but I do now, which doesn't matter now, obviously." She threw him the staff. He caught it, automatically, his eyes never leaving her face.

"Get out," she whispered. "You never belonged 'ere."

"Claire, I-"

"Zair is a back exit," she interrupted. "Out zis door, you must turn to your left and run down, zen take the stairs up at ze dead end."

Lupin grabbed her shoulder, and felt it stiffen up into stone. "I didn't stay because I felt guilty-"

She threw his hand off. "Take two rights-"

"Please don't regret what happened. I didn't mean to-"

"- and you will find a small trap door leading above ground."

"- mislead you. I never meant it that way. I only-"

"Shut up and listen!" Claire snapped. Their eyes met, and Lupin controlled himself from doing anything more. He only looked at her with the same cool stare she gave him.

"Down the hall, up the stairs, two rights," she summarized, looking at him with a level eye. "Now I will count to ten. If you are not out of my sight by ze time I am finished, I will call ze guards on you. And I swear I will leave you to the Gaczyna pack's fate."

Again, Lupin found himself lost for words. But this time, unlike before at the Safehouse, he had a chance to say this to her face. "Thank you," he said, before he put on the Invisibility cloak and threw the hood over his face.

"Do your duty," she said. "_Un, deux, trios-"_

Lupin took the winged boots and staff and he ran. Down the hallway, up the long flight of stairs into a different hall lined with mud bricks, then to the right, coming to an intersection, then another right, then-

The thought of the dead Spanish wizard came to mind and Lupin stopped, realizing the parallels to his situation. Again, caution overtook him, and he surveyed his surroundings, clutching the boots which kicked wildly against his forearms. Was this a trap? The fresh memory of the coldness in her eyes returned. Did she despise him now? The thought flickered briefly in his mind like a dying candle, then blew over as soon as he saw a ladder and the trapdoor above him.

The door was heavy and wouldn't budge at first. Lupin braced himself again and pushed. Bit by bit, it gave way, then made a loud _crack_ as it was thrown open. The sound made Lupin tumble off the rungs and grab his belongings. For a few seconds, he huddled in a corner, alarm bells going off between his ears. Then, finding no one coming, he climbed up into the open night air.

The world was coloured in shades of black and blue. In the distant, the sharp pellet-bangs of rifle fire echoed. Claire had said that they were hunting wizards. Lupin felt his limbs stiffen. What kind of war exercise did that involve? Were there more captive wizards being executed tonight, victims of a routine practice?

Shrugging off the thought before it could paralyze him, Lupin moved quickly through the scrubland. A loud gunshot was heard, and Lupin dropped down low to wait. Tense minutes passed with him not moving. He wanted to put on the boots now, but he couldn't, not while he was still close to the camp. And within firing distance as well.

He crawled down on his stomach, with the winged boots flapping in his right hand, and the staff tugging his left hand forward. He tried to make as little noise as possible, but every rustle made him cringe, and even the sound of his own breathing made him wish he didn't have to.

After many minutes, Lupin's heart finally began to slow down. The sound of guns was growing fainter and fainter. Maybe now was a good time to put on the boots.

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the darkness. The cold, unforgiving muzzle of a rifle pressed into his back.

"Get up, and take off that cloak," ordered Jarohnen Ianikit. The gun was lifted. Slowly, Lupin got up on his knees, and then to his feet.

Lupin slipped the cloak off to see Jarohnen with an assault rifle propped up on one stooped shoulder. The old wolf had Lupin directly in his line of sight, with the weapon pointed straight at his chest. "Very few people can move through the scrub brush," he informed him. "And even fewer can do so without tramplin' like an elephant." Heart sinking, Lupin looked behind him and could tell his exact path by the bent, dry grass, broken shrubs, and scratched earth that would let even a greenhorn tracker have a field day.

"Tonight is a dangerous night for Comrade Remus," he said, his Russian accent sounding like a predator's purr. "They are playin' war games." He took a step forward and Lupin took one step back. "Combat exercises," he went on. "With live ammunition. Wolves have gotten hurt, if they were not careful." Another step. "Friendly fire. All accidental. It's a sad thing, when there is friendly fire. But when it's dark, and there is so much action, sometimes… sometimes mistakes happen."

By then the space between them was barely a metre. "Drop the boots."

Lupin did. They bounced along the ground, struggling against their bonds, and tumbled away into the dark scrub brush. Jarohnen gestured to the staff as well, and Lupin threw it past him.

"Where is my comrade goin'? Why is he leavin'?"

"I was going nowhere," Lupin replied, his hands slightly raised.

"Or will go nowhere, dependin' on this conversation." Jarohnen said. He nudged him with the gun. "Who does Comrade Remus think he is? A godly wolf? A wizard saint?"

"I never tried to delude myself into thinking that, no matter what Claire might have told you. She misunderstood."

"But great Remus Lupin still thinks he is different than us." A crooked, bitter smile crossed his face, one that showed the gap in his teeth. "That is why he denies our call to arms?"

The fact Jarohnen refused to directly address him unnerved Lupin. He could see his eyes gleam. The light gave him a ghoulish cast, as if revealing a side more sinister than Lupin had ever seen. "No." Lupin replied. "I only don't belong here."

"Remember, if Remus Lupin goes back, the wizards will catch him. Think about it. The werewolf going to trial. The werewolf, the wicked beast. The werewolf sentenced to die. And when Remus Lupin – the exception, the anomaly – dies, there will be no barriers between werewolf and man. The wizards will finally find their justification to declare their war on us."

"What war?"

"Why does he think we fight here? Because everythin' is a picnic?" Jarohnen demanded. "Wizards only need one excuse to wipe all werewolves out. And that excuse is the wizardin' werewolf Remus Lupin. For if even someone as tamed as he cannot fight the urge to kill, then werewolves will never be safe enough for wizards."

Tamed? Lupin stared at the werewolf, the torturer and murderer. What was his definition of "tamed?" "And so all of this," Lupin lifted a hand, "this is your defence against wizard retaliation?"

"He talks as if it was a bad thing," Jarohnen replied softly. "We must fight. But we cannot fight poorly."

Another step. Wolf with a gun. Armed with honey-covered words which stabbed like thorns.

"See our logic? If Remus Lupin goes, we all die. Stay, and Remus Lupin becomes our teacher in the ways of magic. Our leader against wizard oppression. Our saviour. Understand?"

"Your saviour?" The words sounded sour on Lupin's tongue.

"Or…" Jarohnen clicked the rifle, and an empty cartridge fell out. "Our martyr. He will be killed by his own people. Wizard or wolf."

Suddenly, Lupin felt the anger slowly stir beneath his fear. A thought that had bothered him since he fled was finally voiced. "Was Claire involved in this?" he asked harshly. "Did you try to manipulate her into getting me to stay?"

"Why does he mention one of the compatriots of the future revolution?" Jarohnen mused. "Does he not understand nothing is above the cause for werewolf freedom?"

But she wasn't a compatriot, if she helped Lupin escape! Yet Jarohnen was here, stopping his escape… Did she tell … or… was it only a coincidence…? Where did this woman stand-?

"Unless he is implyin' that he had outside help…"

"Bastard," Lupin hissed. His legs tensed.

"Famous last words," Jarohnen said. Then, he fired.

Lupin fell flat on the ground, grabbing the Invisibility Cloak. He wrapped himself as he rolled along the ground and disappeared.

He rolled into the grass. Shots followed. Pain – something hot brushed against his left leg. He gasped, and bit his lip until it bled. No sound, not now! Damn! Had to get off the ground!

Scrambling through the darkness. Blind hands searching for the staff he had thrown. Smooth wood reached his fingertips. He yanked off the rag along the top. Golden wings—

"Whoa!"

Immediately, the freed staff flew upwards, lifting Lupin off the ground. A couple metres above ground he floated, like a small child holding a large balloon would. He floated, holding his breath as he watched Jarohnen turn a slow circle, looking for where the noise had stopped. The wolf below looked around the brush. No more sound from the ground. He was safe.

Lupin felt his blood drip down his calf. He clutched at his leg and grimaced. Kissed by a bullet – hurt like hell.

Lupin hovered only a few feet from Jarohnen. He swung his feet, hoping to steer himself in another direction. Instantly, the old werewolf turned, so that both of them were facing each other. Lupin stopped breathing and froze, holding his leg bent against his body so that blood wouldn't drip. He could feel it ooze between his fingers.

Jarohnen paused. His nostrils sniffed – once, twice. Lupin cringed. The scent of his blood—

Instantly, Jarohnen whirled around in the other direction and fired. Nothing but air. Lupin took this time to swing his unharmed leg forward, and the staff slowly moved him further away.

Still, it was too close to the ground to be safe. Keeping Jarohnen in the corner of his eye, Lupin scanned the dark brush for the winged boots.

But he wasn't the one to find them. Rustle in the brush. Jarohnen turned and fired. In a heartbeat, a pair of boots, their laces cut, literally bounced from the ground into the sky. Lupin saw them shoot upwards toward him. He let his injured leg drop and grabbed the winged boots. Then, the stars rushed towards them – he was up in the air as if shot from a cannon, the boots kicking skyward with their wings pulled back – Lupin let out a cry—

Bullets cut into the air in front of him, but missed. He heard Jarohnen curse, but he was quickly getting smaller and smaller, blending into the shadowed earth…

Lupin was now out of range for any gunfire, but the boots still wouldn't stop their ascent. The cloak billowed inward and got in Lupin's way – he let go of the staff –

It floated off and the imbalance left him swinging wildly in the air with only one hold on the boots. He dangled, helplessly and he reached down to untie the normal ragged boots and watched them drop down below. Gritting his teeth, Lupin then pulled down his arm – it was like lifting weights – and shoved one boot onto his left foot.

"Ahhhh!" His foot shot up and he dangled as it zig-zagged through the atmosphere. Hastily, Lupin threw the other boot on his right foot, and then that leg moved up as well, so that he was flying through the air upside-down, the Invisibility Cloak hanging off his uncovered shoulders.

"Damn it all," he muttered between clenched teeth. The staff, which was more obedient than his pesky footwear, hovered patiently nearby, and he grabbed it. The staff moved above to turn him rightside-up again. Lupin grasped the staff with both hands to steady his feet, which kept darting out from beneath him. It felt as if he was ice-skating on the sky. And Lupin had never been good at ice skating.

After a while, his feet got used to the boots, or the boots got used to him. Either way, Lupin began to make steady progress across the sky. He took the time to observe the ground below. The landscape was still black, meaning he was in the country somewhere. Lupin tried finding any significant landmarks to go by, but it seemed that the Gaczyna camp was hidden well. Nothing but dry scrubland spread out for kilometres around; he couldn't even see any lights of civilization.

"Well, I know this is Spain, at least," he muttered to himself. "But what part I have no idea…."

Abruptly, the staff stopped moving.

"What now-?" Lupin slapped it hard with the heel of his hand. "Come on. Go!"

Immediately, it shot forward, faster than it had ever been, taking away his breath-

"Stop!" he exclaimed.

It halted.

He took a few moments to catch his breath. "Are you listening to me?" he asked aloud.

The staff didn't move. "Left," he commanded. The staff moved to the right, and the wing boots moved in sync. "Right." He moved in that direction.

Carefully, Lupin tested out all the cardinal directions, the staff and boots working together, their wings moving in time with the commands. Relieved, Lupin wiped the chilled sweat from his brow.

He tested it further, first, "To the Channel," and then "To Brighton." Across the midnight ocean he moved, admiring how the moonlight sparkled over the rippling waters. The last time he had seen the sea like this was when he took Mary on a hippogriff ride back at Brighton. Strangely enough, when the memory came to mind, it did not hurt as much as memories of her had before. Lupin smiled to himself and moved onwards.

When the bright lights of the shore city glimmered beneath him, he gave one last command.

"To Edinburgh," he said and flew.

The buildings of Edinburgh greeted him with the Muggle buildings and the faint sound of traffic. Lupin landed down by Waldo's Plugs and Outlets, the secret entrance to the Edinburgh branch of the Ministry of Magic. The pain jumped up from his leg, and he winced a bit. The winged boots still squirmed on his feet, but he stomped loudly several times, and they settled down on the ground, somewhat disgruntled. Hesitantly, he removed the Invisibility Cloak and surveyed his surroundings. All was deserted, but he felt another's presence.

"Sirius?"

"About damn bloody time," his friend said from behind him. Lupin turned to see Sirius sitting on an upturned crate near some rubbish bins. "It took you long enough," he muttered. "Shacklebolt was starting to worry, because Bode was running out of excuses as to why one of the Department of Mysteries's precious Time Turners was unaccounted for."

He got up from his spot and started walking towards Lupin. "You owe him big, y'know," he added. "Between giving Fudge false leads on my location while trying to help rescue you at the same time – well, Shacklebolt's saying how we're making him work overtime at the Ministry. And you know how they never pay well for overtime these days, with the budget and all."

By this time, both men stared at each other face-to-face, Lupin looking like some kind of Greek god gone commando and Sirius still scowling ruthlessly.

"I suppose we're obliged to do something for Kingsley as compensation," Lupin mused. "Cook him dinner one night perhaps."

"Yeah. But I make a loathsome cook."

"I could probably whip up something."

"Like what? All I've ever had from you was rabbit on a stick. And to tell you the truth, it was rather gamey."

Lupin laughed, a rich, full one that surprised even him. "I missed you too, Padfoot."

"That's the second time you've said that to me lately. I'm touched, really." Sirius put a hand on Lupin's shoulder and broke into a grin. "Now let's get the hell out of here."

As the two walked down the alleyway, Sirius noticed Lupin's limp. "Good gods," he said, glancing at Lupin's leg and stopping. "What happened?"

"A werewolf with an AK-47, that's what," Lupin said.

Sirius's eyes went wide for a moment, and the memory of the last gunshot wound they had seen together came to both of them. "It-it only grazed me," Lupin said softly.

"We'll just take a look at it. C'mon, over here." Sirius escorted him to the alleyway, where Lupin recognised a second person standing in the shadows. Someone he hadn't seen in a long while.

"Hello Remus," Professor Dumbledore smiled. "You look like you've been through quite a bit."

"Indeed." Lupin bit his lip as he pulled away the tattered cloth around his leg. Blood had caked over it during the flight, showing the blue, ruptured veins in his calf. The wound was long and deep, with the torn muscles showing. Lupin had no idea how bad his leg was, but seeing it for the first time made the pain suddenly increased tenfold.

Seeing the wound, Sirius's expression turned dark. "That bastard!" he spat. "Who the fuck did this to you?"

"No need for that, Sirius. We don't have too much time." Dumbledore took out his wand and waved it quickly over Lupin's injured leg, which healed in an instant. A thick pale scar was all that was left behind, yet it still ached. Lupin rubbed the tender flesh as Dumbledore addressed him formally. "Now, I suppose that you have some idea of what is going on?"

"It's really an odd sensation actually," Lupin commented. "I feel like I'm a part of some giant deus ex machina."

Sirius and Dumbledore exchanged glances. "I had one of my agents fetch a Time Turner from Kingsley back at the Ministry," Dumbledore explained. "I had tried to attend your hearing two weeks ago, but it was a closed court, and the guards at Nemesis Courthouse wouldn't let me though."

"I was with him," Sirius added. He didn't need to add that he came in his Animagus form. "We knew that the hearing wouldn't turn out well. So we came to Edinburgh afterwards to try and talk with you, but we were told you were being kept under maximum security."

So that was what they called being put in the dungeons? If only Lupin had known that the both of them were there to see him; he probably wouldn't have felt so awful then.

Thinking about the hearing, he asked, "Do you know what happened to Mr. Harper?" Lupin recalled that strange vision he had, and the bandages his barrister had worn. Did those wounds have anything to do with this?

"He's recovered quite nicely," Dumbledore answered. "I paid him a visit at St. Mungo's myself. He was a good Hufflepuff, I remember, aside from his nervous disposition. But I'm sure Mr. Harper will tell you all the details of our conversation soon enough." He checked a rather large pocket watch he took from his right pocket. "Our talk has to be cut short, unfortunately."

"But why are you helping me?" Lupin asked. "I know that I shouldn't really ask why, but this seems too planned, too convoluted – "

"Well, think of time as a box," Sirius said, then he paused, and re-started, "I mean, not as a box but more like a loop… well, or a portal in and out…" He trailed off, then threw his hands up.

Dumbledore shook his head a bit. "Sometimes, fate has things planned in ways that we cannot control, only follow. But," he added, "it's the choices we make that decide how fate shall work, after all." From within his robes he took out the small golden hourglass on a chain and handed it over to Lupin. Looking it over, Lupin saw that it had different markings than the one McGonagall had given to Hermione; this one counted off the days, not the hours. "Fifteen turns should be sufficient."

"But I don't quite know where to start, though," he said, somewhat sheepishly.

"Well, if I remember correctly," Sirius replied, "when you met us on March 13th after the hearing, you explained that you were going to break back into Edinburgh with the help of some janitor by the name of Lottie Gordon." He arched an eyebrow. "And you never told me exact how you knew this Ms. Gordon."

"I used to work with her," he said.

"That's what you told me last time."

Dumbledore quickly cut in. "Tonight is March the 28th," he reminded. "See you earlier."

Lupin gave a nod and flipped the Time Turner accordingly. In a flash, the world sped up around him. He watched with fascination as the sunshine and moonlight passed in and out. People walked by, wizards slipped into the shop indiscreetly, tour groups entered and left. Rubbish bins were put out and collected. Birds flew overhead. Then, time slowed, the sun sank down into the west, the night crept out from the alleyways and corners. The lamppost flickered on. Soon, he found himself still in the alleyway again, watching his old Headmaster and a large black dog walk up the alleyway. For a split moment, he wondered if the Time Turner had actually worked.

But then Sirius proved him right. Changing back into human form, his face pale as if he saw a Grim, he exclaimed, "Remus! How the hell did you get here?!"

"I missed you too, Padfoot," Lupin joked, feeling a sense of déjà vu.

Dumbledore had an expression of slight surprise. "Fancy seeing you here this time of night. I suppose you disagreed with the results of your hearing today?"

Yes, tonight was March the 13th! He still had time!

"You'd tried to attend my hearing," Lupin verified.

"We had," Dumbledore began, "but-"

"But the guards wouldn't let you in. So you came here in an attempt to see me, but I had been taken to the dungeons," Lupin finished. Dumbledore pushed up his half-moon spectacles. It was a rare moment the Headmaster was ever interrupted. "I'm sorry," he quickly apologized. "I'm still in shock over all this, you see."

"You're not the only one!! Remus, how'd you do it?" Sirius ran up to him and grabbed his arms with both hands as if making sure he was really there. "Appearing right as we've come in! Impossible! Did you escape? Are you leaving with us?"

Lupin held up the Time Turner. "I'm not coming with you. It's all very complicated, I'm sure I can send an owl later, but I have to go back inside."

"WHAT??"

"I'll be sure to read your letters with him to help smooth out all the winkles," the Dumbledore from two weeks ago winked. "Tonight March the 13th. Still enough time to escape back into prison, if you hurry."

The past Sirius was looking from one wizard to the other, with a look on his face that he once wore only within the walls of Azkaban: that is, slightly insane. "What the – how did – why is –?" he spluttered.

"You see, Sirius, I'm from the future," said Lupin very slowly, trying hard not to laugh at the contrast between his friend's past and future reactions. "And tonight, my past self will be kidnapped and taken to a werewolf soldier training camp. Yes, it's complicated," he tacked on, seeing the look on Sirius's face. "And… well... and I'm here now to take my place back in the dungeons so I can continue my trial without the Ministry realising I had ever left."

Sirius blinked. Then he made a funny noise, a cross between blowing a raspberry and having a punch to the gut. After several minutes, when he finally was able to speak intelligibly, the past Sirius said, "Okay. Let me get this straight. You suddenly walk out here, with a Time Turner, saying that you will escape from prison tonight, but now you – some kind of future Remus, I guess – you are here. To replace your past self. _Because you still want to go to trial?_"

"Yes."

"Argh!" He put both hands to his head. Lupin stood there unsurely, but he looked to see Dumbledore's reaction, and saw him mouth silently, "It'll be all right," as Sirius moaned.

"Did I hurt your brain that much?" he asked gently. "Because I know this is pretty confusing now, but you will understand-"

"It's not that! I can accept the time travel! Maybe." Sirius glared at him. "What I don't understand is why in Hades's name would you want to go back? I mean, you had escaped, didn't you? You were free! And now, if you go back to court, they'll murder you!" He grabbed Lupin's shoulders and shook him violently.

"What do you think you are?" he spat. "A masochist or something?"

"No, it's just - " He pulled away, but Sirius looked ready to jump him. Dumbledore reached out to take him by the arm, but he moved away.

Something empty and hollow echoed in his eyes that startled Lupin. "Whatever, however this works, you can't do this."

"You can't stop me this time, Sirius," Lupin said softly, standing up straighter. It was like they were back at the cave again, and he was leaving. But he was leaving him once more, wasn't he? This time. Again.

He was leaving all of them, Lupin suddenly realised. He could see the despair in Sirius's eyes. The same despair that had been coldly mirrored in Jarohnen's eyes. Or that had resonated in Claire's voice. No, it couldn't be; it couldn't be!

Damn it; he couldn't act this way; he couldn't repeat the same mistakes!

Was he only acting in circles? Was he denying everyone he knew to pursue madness? Was this the essence of time travel: to go back, again and again, but still act the same?

Now, seeing Sirius there for the first time in months and realising that this was his chance to escape, Lupin stepped back from his original plan. He couldn't repeat himself, not now… but he… he didn't have to. He could stay. He could leave. Now. Before anything more could happen. He could forget himself, forget everything. He could simply leave…

Carefully, he took Sirius's wild grip off of him. "I…" He turned to Dumbledore, who hadn't said a word about it. Dumbledore had his eyes averted, as if he didn't want to infringe of on Lupin's choice. The pocket watch hanging from his side gleamed gold in the lamplight. Time. That was the essence of everything in his journey, wasn't it?

These many months, Lupin had been trying to steal back time. Consciously or subconsciously, all of his actions were aimed at trying to relive the past. To take back lost memories that could never be retrieved.

But time can't be stolen. It can be changed, it can be warped, it can even be repeated, but time could never, never be used the same way twice.

Lupin had been a thief, but even he couldn't get away with this crime. And he had promised Mary he would never steal again.

So he decided.

"I… can't, Sirius," he whispered.

"Why?" his friend snapped.

"Because time is fate," Lupin replied.

"So what? You're talking as if you have no choice!"

"I do have a choice. My time is my own. But how I spend it; I suppose that's how I'll follow my own fate."

For a long while, they were silent: Lupin, thoughtful and sombre, and Sirius, bewildered and resentful. It wasn't a very pleasant. Finally, Dumbledore put a hand on Sirius's arm. "This is the part where we leave, Sirius." He must know that Lupin only had so much time….

"But…" He was struggling now. "But how are you going to get back in?"

"It's simple," Lupin stated matter-of-factly. "I have a friend who works inside the Ministry. Her name's Lottie Gordon."

"Lottie, eh?" Sirius demanded. "And how do you know this Lottie is going to help you break back in? I mean, she'll still think that you've never left!"

"I'll make her trust me," he said confidently.

"Oh really?" Sirius arched an eyebrow. "And what exactly is your relationship with her?"

"I used to work with her."

"Oh, now, that's a note of confidence."

"Look, you will trust me in the future, so give me some credit now."

Sirius rolled his eyes. Lupin handed the Time Turner back to Dumbledore. "Thank you."

"Don't mind me," Dumbledore said lightly. "You thank yourself. And good luck."

Chapter 36

With the Invisibility Cloak on, Lupin snuck back into Waldo's Plugs and Outlets. Darkness veiled everything; the gift shop was eerily quiet when he passed. He looked at the giant clock hanging above the counter and noted the time. Creeping up to the elevator, he said in a loud whisper, "Doun."

He descended to the depths of the Ministry. Lupin could recite Lottie's work schedule from memory, and so he knew exactly what floor she would be at to start her evening shift. The Department for Magical Law Enforcement.

The very same floor from which his past self was, being dragged off to the dungeons.

For tonight was now March 13th. That day, Lupin had his hearing. Harper had fainted in the courtroom. And Lottie should be scrubbing the toilets.

The door to the gentleman's lavatory was propped open and a sign "Closed for cleaning" was stuck on the door. Lupin slipped off the cloak and hung it over one arm. He could hear Lottie singing wistfully to herself and loud slops as the mop hit the tile floor.

"_Lookin' doun for a tide tae no return,_

_ Is the field, where the crops no longer grow,_

_ Parched is the land, strangled an' damned,_

_ Thair for the Grace o' God I go…_"

He didn't want to sneak up behind her and possibly frighten her, so he stood against one of the stall and whispered loudly, "Lottie!"

She stopped her mopping and raised her head. "Who goes thair?"

Lupin took a breath, then emerged from his hiding spot. "Hello."

She paled. The mop handle left her hand and gave a wooden _thunk _as it hit the floor. "Remus Lupin!" she gasped. "It's-it's-it's Remus Lupin!"

"Lottie Gordon," he welcomed mildly. "How are you keeping?"

Lottie backed away, slowly, her eyes growing larger and larger. "Y-you're the w-w-werewolf that's all over the p-papers," she said, voice shaking. "T-the one who attacked the Muggle lass!"

"Well, you should never trust the media nowadays," he said. "They can be quite biased."

Immediately, she grabbed her mop and flung it forward like a lance. "Get bac ye," she spat, flourishing the sudsy mop head at him. Soapy water was flung onto his clothes. "Get bac, or I'll…I'll…"

"Hold on," he said. "Just listen to me-"

"WILBUR!!!" the Squib janitor screamed, calling the night guardsman. "WILBUR, THAIR'S A WEREWOLF ON THE—UMHF!"

Lupin jumped the stout lady and clasped his hand over her mouth. Holding her close, he whispered in her ear. "Please, only listen to me for but a moment-"

She squirmed, muffled curses spewing out of her mouth. Lupin went into Douglas's voice: "Eef I wunted tae keel ye, I wunnae gun dun it by nae. Listen tae me. Dunnae ye recognize mi, Lottie-lass? 'Tis yer ol' lad Dougie Ridley."

"Doggie?" Lottie exclaimed from behind his grip.

" Aye! Nae I'll let ye go, but ye mustn't run, an' ye mustn't scream agin. Richt?"

She nodded. Lupin let her go and she tumbled out of his arms and fell on the floor. Scampering backwards until she was well away from his reach, Lottie then said in an awed voice, "I… I dunnae understand. What's goin' on here?"

"It's a long story." He sighed. "A very long story. But, I promise you, I won't bite if you just sit right here and let me have my say. Let me show you something to prove myself to you."

"Ye stay weel away," Lottie chided, still shaking. She lifted a trembling finger at him. "Keep yer proper distance."

"Fine. Now, we'll leave together. You first." Lupin gave a slight bow and pointed toward the door. Lottie sat on the floor, unmoved.

"No!" she snapped. "I'm not havin' a wolf at my bac!" So, Lupin moved out first, and then Lottie stood up with a dignified air, grabbed her bucket and her mop, and plodded past him, watching with narrow eyes as she passed.

"Go to the cubicles," he ordered. Lottie, moving shakily, obeyed him, and they both ducked into the nearest one. Lupin cornered Lottie and pulled out a chair for her to sit in.

"How do I know that I should trust you?" she asked. He could see that the fear in her eyes had not left yet, and his mind raced to think of a way to reassure her.

"Call up Wilbur."

"Wha'?"

"Call him up and ask if any newcomers are to be expected on this floor." He gestured to the phone sitting on the desk. Lottie stared at it, grabbed the receiver, and dialled the number. Lupin moved next to her and put a hand on her shoulder. "Not a word about me," he added in a firm voice. "Or else."

Lottie gulped. "Uh, yeah, hallo Wilbur," she said in a strained voice. "How are ye keepin'? I've… I've dun bitter." Her eyes flickered nervously up at Lupin. "Um, by the way, d'ye knae if anybody's supposed to be coming to the Stakeout tonicht? I've been seein' people…" She paused. "Remus Lupin? Ye… ye dunnae say…" her voice rose up a few octaves as she said that. "Werewolves… aye, dangerous creatures, they are… richt. I'll be on my guard then." A weak chuckle. "Have a good ane. Bye." She hung up.

"What did Wilbur tell you?"

"Tha' ye… tha' the guards from Nemesis had just come in wi' ye… tha' they are takin' ye doun to the dungeons…"

"Let's take a little trip then, shall we?" Lupin draped the cloak around them, and they moved back to the hallway leading to the underground holding rooms. Lupin plunked down her bucket and stuck the mop back in her hands. "Watch," he ordered.

Quickly, he moved a bit behind her. He could hear the elevator ding and the doors swing open and shut.

From behind the Invisibility Cloak, he watched coolly as the three men approached. A subtle shiver went through him upon seeing himself with the two guards. The fear and disbelief that had stirred inside him at the time, had not even shown on his face. The stone-cold reaction shocked even himself.

Lupin saw his past self meet Lottie's gaping stare. Watching her from the back now, he could see why she would turn and run.

Again, Lottie returned to him, her mouth opening and closing like some giant fish. "What- what- what-"

"That was me," he said.

"But it ain't!" she said. "Yer richt here! Ye cannae be in two places! I cannae believe this; I swear if ye try an' fool me- "

Oh no, here it goes. Lupin bit his lip. "What's the hour?"

"I swear, I'll take my mop an' shove it up yer- wha'?"

Lupin pointed to her watch.

Lottie checked. "Aboot 12."

"Midnight, eh?" He knew he'll have some explaining to do now, and it would be much harder than it would be with Sirius. "Care for some tea then?"

Explaining everything to Lottie Gordon had been difficult. More than difficult, really, considering that Lottie was the last person Lupin would ever think about telling her about this situation. They moved down to the Custodial Services Office for some much-needed privacy. Lupin made the tea, making his way around the cluttered room with ease to show her that he really had once worked here. He kept dropping little factoids about her life as she worked, like how she would chew only Goblinstopper Gum, and liked her tea with three sugars and five creams.

Lottie gave a nod for each one he got right, as if keeping score. She cradled her tea in her hands and let it grow cold as he talked about his true self and where he had been the last two weeks. Lupin didn't want to talk down to her, and the better part of him was willing to believe that she would be able to understand his plight without sounding condescending.

In the end, Lupin waited for her reaction. Lottie sipped her tea for the first time that hour, and asked, "So yer not goin' tae kill me?"

Lupin deadpanned, "No. I. Am. Not."

She sipped again. "Bu' after I help ye, yer not goin' tae kill me?"

"Why should I?"

She blinked, then tipped back the teacup and drank it to the dregs. Smacking her lips, she wiped her mouth of her sleeve and said, "So. Where do we start?"

They started right away. Swiftly, they made their way back to the Stakeout, the nickname for the Department for Magical Law Enforcement, and to the door to the dungeon. Lupin wore his Invisibility Cloak, and Lottie carried a lantern.

"You wait here until I bring out my light," he told her, and she nodded, mute.

Taking her lantern, he quickly ascended the stairs. His boots made great clomping noises on the stone steps. Then, about halfway down, he heard his voice:

"Mr. Harper, is that you?"

The mischievous part of him wanted to call back, "No, but you'd never guess who," but, of course, he kept his mouth shut. Making his way down into the dungeons, he found the cell where he was, put down the lantern, and put the cover down over the light.

"Who are you?" his past self asked.

Suddenly, a loud whirring sound filled the air, like Lottie's vacuum cleaner starting up. Lupin bit his tongue in anticipation of what would happen next.

The drunk man's song filled the air again, only to be muffled by Ulysses.

""Hello comrade," Jarohnen was saying. "Nice to see ya face again."

"Jarohnen?"

"Statin' the obvious: a sign that my good wolf still has his mental capacities."

It was an odd effect. Lupin could still see Jarohnen in his mind, rifle in hand. He could feel the hot sun on his skin and the dry air in his lungs. He licked his lips and tasted the Spanish dust that still clung to them.

"Three minutes!" said Ulysses.

Lupin sat down on the stone with the lantern between his knees. He could hear the commotion inside the cell, and snatches of conversation. Déjà vu overwhelmed him; he could feel his head start to pound, as if suffering from the stretch of time.

"What are you doing here?"

"You're not makin' it any easier, Comrade Remus, but then again, ya never knew. Time?"

"Two forty-five."

"What is going on?"

Lupin put his hands to his head, trying to block out the sound of himself. In the edge of his vision, he could make out Lottie standing at the top of the stairwell, braced up against the wall, unsure about what to do next.

A nasty crack of skull hitting stone stirred Lupin for his thoughts. Immediately, he touched the spot that had hit the floor and winced in memory. The pain bloomed again, and Lupin keeled forward, his face contorted.

The sounds of a struggle increased. He could feel the injuries that he suffered through; he could taste the chloroform in his mouth. He choked; he gagged. What was happening? Was this another effect of time? To suffer the same injuries over? A loud cough escaped his lips.

"Help!" Past Lupin was shouting now. "You there! Get help! Get help!"

"But I can't," Lupin whispered. "This is how it has to be."

And in a flash, they were gone. The brief moments of pain disappeared. Lupin rubbed his throat, which was now feeling a bit raw and got up, unmasking the light. Lottie trotted quickly down the steps to meet him. "Where do we go nae?"

Now to deal with the remaining man. The one with the dead eyes…

"There is…" Lupin paused. "Give me the keys."

She did and he quickly pulled open the heavy door. "Don't come in," he told her.

When he entered the cell his body swung, back and forth, back and forth. Lupin could see the back of the dead man's head, and his neck stuck out at a crooked angle. He jumped and grabbed onto the belt; it strained a bit before snapping with a loud cracking sound. Both Lupin and his dead body fell to the floor. Taking the Invisibility Cloak, he swiftly threw it over the body and tucked the cloth in. He suddenly realised that he needed new clothes; he was still dressed in his desert gear. But the thought of stripping the body made him sick, and he decided not to.

"Lottie, come here, quickly." Lupin dragged the invisible bundle out of the cell. "Help me carry this to the Incinerator."

"What is it?" she asked hesitantly.

"A body." He could see Lottie stiffen. "We have to get rid of it," he said briskly, as if disposing corpses was something he did everyday. "I threw the cloak over it, so we don't have to look."

And he didn't, oh God, he never wanted to see those dead eyes ever again…

Lottie still did not move. Lupin picked his the heavy shoulders and lifted up his half with a grunt. "Please," he said. "We must hurry."

The Squib janitor looked at Lupin, then at the empty space he seemed to hold, then at Lupin again. A struggle was going on in her mind. Lupin didn't say a word more but silently pleaded with his eyes. _We have to do this; I can't have him here; this is what we have to do; you must help me…_

Slowly, she said, "Which end's his feet?"

Lupin pointed, and, stolidly, Lottie picked up the invisible side. "Are we goin'?"

The climb up the long and narrow stairwell never seemed to end. After the first twenty steps, the weight of the corpse slowed them down. Lottie, as strong as she was in handling her manual tasks nightly, started to slip at her end halfway though, and they were forced to rest. Lupin could tick off the seconds in his head, watching the door above them tensely, just waiting for the night guardsmen to catch them. But there was no trouble for them, and they reached the next floor safely.

Dragging the body down the levels and over to the Incinerator was one of the most sickening acts Lupin had ever done. He could feel the body still warm in his arms. When they faltered, the body would drip low in the middle; whenever they turned corners he could make out the faint outline of an arm as if began to slip out from beneath the Cloak. He gritted his teeth and kept going.

At last, they made it to the floor where the Incinerator was. Faint traces of smoke reached his nostrils. With his second wind, Lupin and his former co-worker took the body over to the large steel door that led to the fire. Lottie swung the door open for him as Lupin rested. But as she moved past him, her arm brushed against the folds of the cloak. The hood fell away, revealing a stark white face with blank eyes.

Damn it.

Lottie stood, frozen by the opening of the Incinerator. The little colour that was in her face had fled completely, and now, she tottered unsteadily backwards.

"Tha's… tha's... tha's…"

Lupin averted his eyes. He didn't want to look anymore either. "That's not me." He said. Then, in a louder voice, he repeated, "That's not me. That's someone else. Some other poor soul."

But she put her hands between her knees, swallowing great gasps of air. "Dead…" she said in a strangled voice. "Yer dead."

Lupin shut his eyes. Desperate strength came to him, and he grabbed his impostor's body and heaved it up to the opening. He could smell the cinder and ash and fire from the Incinerator. Great plumes of thick black smoke caught in his lungs; tears stung his eyes. One last push, and the body slipped down into the chute and was gone.

He could hear the dead thing descend into the depths and evaporate in the haze of flames. The knot in his stomach turned loose, and he retched into the opening of the chute, hacking on bad air and bitter embers. Lottie hunched over behind him, her arms crossed around her torso.

The smoke, which had always smelled of ink and carbon, took on a musky scent of charred meat. Lupin stumbled away, wiping his sleeve, and made his way along the wall. He moved down the hallway, away from the toxic-smelling Incinerator. Crumpling to his knees, he pressed his face against the ground and breathed through his sleeve. Lottie made her way alongside him and plunked onto the ground. Her face had a greenish cast now.

Together, they shared a look of mutual disgust.

"Tell me it's over," Lottie said faintly.

Lupin could only nod. They sat in the hallway for what seemed to be many minutes. Then he told her: "It's over, Loretta."

And he thought to himself: _That wasn't me. That wasn't me. That was Douglas Ridley with the dead eyes. And now he's gone forever._

Now it was morning on Monday, March 14th. Lupin felt the odd sensation of being at Nowhere-Anywhere, but he knew better. He was back at Edinburgh, in the dungeons. It wasn't an illusion this time.

_ Cattails blowing in the wind. Swaying, their pulpy heads nudged against each other while in motion. Rustle of the long grass. And the cold night air with the wind and the cattails stirring with the long grass...._

The drip, drip, drip of the underground. Water from the ceiling. It had been raining, and the trickling water came from the puddles in the city streets, far above his head. The air was damp and it felt like a coating of sludge was mixed into the atmosphere, leaving invisible clots he could feel as he breathed. "There will be a man named Dominic," Lupin said. "He'll offer you a drink. Have as much as you want, but remember to tell him that I'm still locked up. It's essential that you do so."

Lottie's face turned ghostly in the lantern light. She stood on her tiptoes, clinging to the ledge of the little barred horizontal slit in the heavy door. He could see the ends of her fingers, like fat grubs, sticking over the ledge. "An' how came ye knou such things?" came her voice from the other side.

A crooked smile crossed his face. "Let's say that I've been living a double life for so long, it simply comes to me."

She nodded, and took the lantern up from the ground. He could hear her steps as she moved away. Lupin knew that they both shared a secret now, a deep one, but one that she would never betray. Now tonight, when Dominic will take her to the Flying Leviathan for some drinks, Lottie will tell him that Lupin was still in prison, as if he had never left. And she would possibly get completely smashed, and laugh him out of the bar, and do anything she would like. But now Lupin was working with time, and soon, everything would settle into place.

He crossed his arms over the new set of jail robes Lottie had filched for him. They were a size too big for him, but they would do.

A second set of footsteps echoed in the dank dungeon, and Lupin saw his barrister and a guardsman run into Lottie. Through the bars, he watched as both of them jumped back a bit, startled as each of their thoughts was interrupted.

"Sorry!" the barrister and the Squib exclaimed and shied away from each other.

"Didn't mean tae run intae ye," Lottie said quickly, stepping back.

"No, I should be sorry. Couldn't see you," Harper replied awkwardly.

"Oh weel, 'tis nuthin' much. When yer this short, the Big Anes tend to overlook ye anyways."

A brief laugh. "I've seen you somewhere before, though, right?" A pause. "Hey, you're the night janitor here, aren't you?"

"Why, yes. Nae, if ye don't mind, it's a bit late for me. I'm headin' out."

"Oh, right." Harper stuck out his hand. "Samuel Harper, by the way." He looked slightly confused.

"Loretta Gordon. Or Lottie, if ye prefer."

"Lottie, okay. Um, nice talking to you."

"I'm sure it was. G'morning." She quickly scuffled away and went back up the stairwell. Lupin wasn't sure if it was the lantern light, but he thought he saw a faint blush cross her plump cheeks. He smiled.

Harper was a bit ruffled as he came up to talk to him.

"Good morning, Mr. Lupin," Samuel Harper greeted. He appeared rather pale, but otherwise in good form. Making a gesture toward the door, Harper directed the guardsman, who took out a large set of keys to unlock it. They made small talk as they climbed the stairs back up to the Department for Magical Law Enforcement and entered a private conference room.

Sitting down at the table across from Lupin, Harper gave a nod to the security guard and he stepped out, giving them some time alone.

"Mr. Harper, I thought I'd never seen you again, after last time."

Harper fished out a cigarette from his pocket. "I thought so too," he said, lighting up. Lupin didn't comment, but Harper hastily said, "I'm cutting down, honestly."

"You heard about my beast status, though…"

Both of them knew that beasts don't have Ministry-provided representation. "As soon as I regained consciousness and coherent thought, yes." Harper blew out a small cloud and propped an elbow on the table. Lupin noticed how comfortable Harper seemed with him than before.

"It's the oddest thing, really," he began conversationally. "Albus Dumbledore paid me a visit while I was at the hospital. Albus Dumbledore! I haven't seen him since I got out of Hogwarts, but he said that you were an old friend and all. I remembered him being your guardian too for awhile, when you were younger."

Lupin nodded, recalling that as a piece of evidence Harper had cited during the hearing.

"I told him that I wasn't sure if I was still your barrister, until he pointed out the most remarkable thing." Harper grinned. "He mentioned how all beasts put on trial in front of the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures must have its owner to represent them. By definition, the closest thing to an owner you have is Mr. Dumbledore-"

Lupin smiled to himself, simply because only a person like Harper would use the title "Mr." with Dumbledore.

"- and so he is responsible for speaking on your behalf during the trial," Harper continued without notice. "But since he can't take the time to defend you properly, he asked if I could do it for him."

He took out a piece of parchment and pushed it forward. "I could still represent you by the 'owner's' request. Only if you wanted," he added quickly. "You don't have to. Anyone else can step in. It, just, well, if you would like me back…"

"Do you have a quill on you then?"

"Oh, oh!" Harper fumbled a bit and offered a feather. Without a pause, Lupin signed the document and handed it back to him.

Harper tried to keep his expression neutral, but Lupin could tell he was quite pleased. "Thank you, Mr. Lupin. Of course, I suppose you have no choice in the matter, but really, I'm flattered – representing a friend of Mr. Dumbledore's, and all – why, I mean, you can always change your mind – "

"But for now, I can't think of a better person to represent me, Mr. Harper."

" – I'll get started right now then. You must have had a horrible time, cooped up underground like that. It was only for the full moon, really, why you were put there."

"Things were pretty quiet around here," he commented.

"Bet you wouldn't believe everything that happened to me," Harper confessed. "I was nearly on my deathbed. Never trust Muggle medicines ever again, I'll tell you that much." He paused for a moment in reflection. "Really now, I don't see how much worse off you were compared to me these last two weeks."

"You'd be surprised, Mr. Harper," Lupin replied with wry grin. "Quite surprised."

_Wolf by Ears_ will continue…


	11. The People vs Remus Lupin

Summary: The upcoming trial ushers in a media maelstrom in the wizarding world, drawing out figures from the past back into the spotlight. Amid the controversy about werewolf rights mixed in with characters' personal struggles, the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures gather to begin the trial of Remus Lupin…

Author's Note: Since the release of HBP, _Sin of Lycaos_ and _Wolf by Ears_ are now set in an AU world. Despite this, however, I will continue to write and finish WbE. Hopefully, you'll stick around to finish reading it.

Many thanks go out to all the readers who had contacted me with feedback during the past year since the last update. It was your encouraging words which motivated me to go on.

Wolf by Ears

Part Eleven: The People vs. Remus Lupin

By D.M.P.

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He that goes into law holds a wolf by the ears.

- Robert Burton, _Anatomy of Melancholy._

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Chapter 37

The house in Nice was unusually silent. Bernard preferred things to be still and calm; only then could he work on his research. But since his sister had come to live with him, he had grown accustomed to hearing her move around the house, to her faint voice yelling through the thin walls during international phone conversations, to her slamming doors, clanking on her keyboard in her room, or cursing softly to herself as she moved gingerly through the antique-filled corridors.

Claire had been oddly placid the past few days since Bernard had returned home. She returned from her trip before him and remained in her room. Not a word from her about how the family was doing: whether Caleb and his triplet sons dealt with the colic, whether Mother, blind and bedridden, still screeched at her from the canopy bed, whether the climate in the mountains was still pleasantly brisk this time of year. He reminded her about her earlier promise to consider entering Dr. D'Aubigne's study at the Centre for Lycanthropic Research, but she had replied with nothing but a brief comment about being dehumanized enough for some time. Afterwards, whenever their paths would cross during the evening, he had politely asked how her days went and she would bluntly answer back, "_Comme_ _merde_." Her disposition, despite her earlier promise of being more cheerful upon her return, had only curled in on itself like a withered leaf. _Women's troubles_, Bernard had thought. He would never understand them.

Bernard preferred things to be simple and straightforward: identify the problem, find a solution, gather the needed material, and fix it. The logical flow of science pleased him; if only everything in life could be the same.

Her situation was like an incomplete equation, or an experiment ruined through a miscalculation. He could see them at an impasse, stuck from gaining the correct conclusions because of some gross human error. Claire would not admit it. There was something wrong, some horrible mistake, but she wouldn't go back and correct it. Examine the evidence again. Re-calculate. Discuss. Make new conclusions. Her silence was illogical. That wasn't justice (for after all, justice is but a balancing equation – all atoms, ions, and charges must be equal on both sides).

Something happened to her the night of the December full moon, and the logical solution to do would file a complaint against the English government. But she hadn't, and Bernard felt ashamed at his inability to push her further. Her silence, no matter how personal it was, wounded his sense of justice. To have her be this way tormented him more than any of the foolish antics that she had been involved in the past. Claire had been wronged, and he had been irresponsible, and her useless legs were reminders that mocked them both.

Whenever an experiment went awry, Bernard tended to go over each movement, each measurement in the back of his mind over and over again. The only thing that would soothe him was reaching the solution or breaking something.

That particular evening Bernard sat at his computer, his bottle-thick glasses sliding down his great nose, typing away diligently with his index fingers about an article on the possibilities of finding magical properties in the Alu repeat sequence of DNA. He had assumed that Claire had been doing work as well – or whatever occupied her time – but when he sent Fifi Dubois to check up on her, the housekeeper returned with a shrug and a shake of her head.

"_Non_," she told him. "_Madame n'est pas trave_."

"What is she doing then?"

"Sleeping."

Again. She had been sleeping too much the past fortnight. Something was the matter, but it would have been too awkward for her brother to simply ask why. Besides, she would never tell him. And he had promised that he wouldn't ask their little brother whatever happened during her visit to the castle. Bernard wasn't going to compromise his personal integrity to investigate his sister's moodiness. He respected her. If she wanted him to know, she would.

The security control board on his desk beeped, signalling that someone was ringing at the front gate. Bernard flicked a switch and the small monitor screen lit up. A fuzzy white and blue shot of the front gate was shown, with a slight young man standing before it.

"Um, hullo? Bonjour? Saloot?" came an English voice from the box speaker. On the screen, the man tapped the box hesitantly. "Ess-quer vous Bernard de Chien-Loup?"

The werewolf narrowed his eyes. Fifi, who watched over his shoulder, started off downstairs. Her employer raised a hand to stop her. "I'll get the front door. _Entrez_," he said into the voice box. Pressing a button, he unlocked the gate. Outside, the man jumped back as the iron gates swung open.

Bernard headed to the first floor, straightening the collar to his dress shirt and rolling down the sleeves. He opened the door to see the stranger with his nose buried in a book.

"Um, um…" The young man fumbled with a small volume entitled _The Travelling Wizard's Essential Foreign Phrasebook._ He spoke slowly, his voice yelling out important words as if Bernard had been deaf, not French. "Je… je maple SAMUEL HARPER," he recited. "Je swiss AVOCAT… der REMUS LUPIN. Poo-je entre? Je voudray PARLAY avec CLAIRE DE CHIEN-LOUP, see-vous play?"

Instinctively, Bernard's nostrils flared. He bit his lip to restrain himself from barking out a rapid reply. He tried keeping his face straight, but the young man seemed to skirt back anyways, painfully aware of his _faux-pas_.

"Welcome to my 'ome, Monsieur'Arper. Why don't you come in?" Bernard replied discreetly in heavy accented English. He pushed up the ridge of his glasses and crossed his arms. Harper froze and stuffed his phrasebook back into his pocket, the colour slowly rising to his cheeks.

"_Please_," he insisted in a nearly growling tone. "I will go get Claire."

"Um, thank you," Harper squeaked. "Mercy."

Bernard grumbled to himself as he let the barrister in and shut the door.

Harper stood in the centre of the front hall, clutching his briefcase. Fifi Dubois waited at the head of the staircase. Bernard gave a curt nod. "Tell Claire that Monsieur Harper the Englishman would like to speak with her," he ordered her in French, then turned to his guest. When Bernard turned to look at him, the barrister flinched and gave a nervous chuckle.

"I apologise. I-I wasn't aware that you spoke English," he stammered.

"And I was not aware zat you were speaking French," Bernard replied dryly. He gestured with a heavy hand towards the parlour. "Please sit, Monsieur 'Arper."

Harper scurried into the room and took the seat closest to the entranceway. Settling himself down opposite to Harper in the leather chair, Bernard folded his hands and said, "So, you are ze lawyer from ze papers, no?"

"Yes… I-I suppose there is a bit of a buzz about the trial." Harper ran and hand through his hair as another tight chuckle came from his lips. _What a poor fool,_ Bernard thought. _He looks more like a schoolboy in a business suit than a proper lawyer._

"What would my sister 'ave to do wiz zis matter?"

"I would like to speak with her. My client, Mr. Lupin, had spent some time at her Safehouse in London last year and I would like to have her testify in court."

"About what?"

"About his character."

"My sister 'as much trouble wiz legal matters. She will not work for wizards now. Zey have done nosing good for 'er." He looked at Harper straight in the eye. "I do not want to see 'er used again. Do you understand ze words I say, Monsieur 'Arper?"

"Yes, sir, um, monsieur." Surprisingly, the young barrister met his eyes and held the stare. "I understand that Madame has been through a lot lately. She doesn't have to testify if she doesn't want to. I'm only trying to do my best to help my client."

"And you zink Claire will 'elp Monsieur Lupin? She barely knows 'im."

"It wouldn't hurt to ask."

Fifi returned before Harper could say anything more and nodded to Bernard. "Claire will see you now," he said. "My 'ousekeeper will show you up to 'er room."

"Thank you, thank you so much," Harper jumped from his seat and stuck out his hand. Bernard took it with a vice-like grip. "Nice to meet you, Monsieur de Chien-Loup."

"My pleasure." Bernard watched the barrister follow Fifi up the stairs. The boy had a weak handshake but a strong step.

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Lottie toddled down the hall to the holding pens, whistling to herself. She had just dropped off a letter to that Lupin lad, and now was on her way to having her midnight tea and propping up her feet for awhile. Things have been a bit lonely before, when she had to work by herself, but now, the nights weren't so bad.

Not that she was going to judge that laddie, Remus Lupin. Sure, she had been almost scared out of her soul when she saw him the first night, giving everything that happened. But Lottie was a simple person and thus, very forgiving when actions don't have horrible consequences. There was a small bit in Lupin which she trusted, some small bit that had felt the same when he pretended to be Dougie Ridley. Besides, he had promised not to bite, and the more time Lottie spent with him, the more she realised how silly it was of her to assume that a sweet soul like Lupin would ever think of biting _her_. They were friends now, after all.

Instead of going straight up the elevator chute, she stopped at the Stakeout to see if young Sam Harper was in his cubicle. They hadn't been complete strangers before running into each other in the dungeons. Lottie to recall all the times in the past she'd seen him working the late hours away in Department of Magical Law Enforcement, staying around the Ministry for hours longer than her. That master barrister must have the devil in him to work a poor boy like Harper as if he were nothing more than a cart horse.

Well, they had never really spoken to each other before now, though. Even after seeing him around for seven years at the Ministry, Lottie knew better than to speak to a Big Ane. People have their place in the world, and Lottie certainly knew hers. No Big Ane ever bothered to talk to one of the Small Fowk.

But she supposed Sam was a bit different from all the other Big Anes. Ever since they first spoke with each other, he actually made an effort to initiate more conversations with Lottie; in fact, he did so whenever they saw each other. At first, Lottie didn't know what to make of it: he must be a very bored; he probably wanted to amuse himself by watching her stutter; he would have never wanted to chat with a janitor unless he wanted something. And Lottie couldn't think of a thing that a fully-educated and handsome wizard would want from her that he couldn't get from any other lassie prettier – or at least taller – than she.

If she would admit to anything, however, it would be that she thought Harper's attention was quite flattering. That was why they had been sharing midnight tea for the past week or so since their first meeting. He would talk a lot – mostly rambling about legal technicalities involving his client. But Lottie didn't mind. She liked hearing those big words come out of his mouth; it made her feel as if she involved in very sophisticated discussions.

"Hallo, Lottie. How are ye keepin'?" He asked, adopting some of her speech.

"Doin bitter nae." Lottie sat down beside his desk and looked at the papers spread out before him. "Wha's tha'?"

"A deposition I took on a trip to France today," Harper replied. "I was interviewing a Madame Claire de Chien-Loup." Lottie couldn't help but be distracted by the way he looked at her. What he said floated over her head, except for the cheerful quality of his voice. "She was the London Safehouse owner just before it was shut down by the Registry, you know. It's really fascinating, all that she said here about Mr. Lupin…She just went on and on and on about him…." He scanned the parchment in front of him before rolling it up. "I asked if she would like to appear in court to testify."

Only half-listening, Lottie suddenly shook her head and asked, "Oh? An' wha' did she say?"

"It was very odd how she reacted, actually. She got terribly angry at me as soon as I suggested it. 'Why would I ever want to come to the defence of manipulative scum like him!' I think were her exact words, but I could be paraphrasing. But then as soon as she said that, Madame de Chien-Loup got all quiet and asked when she could come. I hesitated, but she began apologizing profusely and demanding a date for the deposition. We scheduled it for next week." Harper gave a dismissive shrug. "She's the moodiest woman I've ever met."

"Sounds like she an' Mr. Lupin could have had a past," Lottie commented.

"What past?"

She clicked her tongue. "Not my place tae gossip aboot people I dunno."

"I'm not sure if she'll be able to come over here anyways, considering her unfavourable status in the eyes of the Registry. Maybe I could file a subpoena or something."

"Weel, ye think ye can come doun to the cafeteria wi' me?" Lottie asked. "Or, rather, if yer busy, I understand…" She looked away, embarrassed over her effrontery.

Harper laughed, but not unkindly. "Oh, I just need to go through today's Owl Post." He stuffed the parchment in his file cabinet. "It's real nice to eat with someone like this," he admitted with his back turned. "I've never had anyone I could talk to here who didn't think of me as the department gopher."

A crimson flush instantly rushed to Lottie's face, and, unable to think of anything to cover for it, she got up. "I'll jus' wait for ye thair," she said hurriedly.

"Okay," Harper replied, oblivious to her reaction. Taking up a pile of letters from his inbox, he began to shuffle through them. The Squib janitor hadn't left yet, though she said that she would; instead, she kept shuffling along the hallway, hoping that Harper wouldn't take too long.

Unexpectedly, he screamed.

Lottie jumped and rushed back. Before she could saw a word, she paused in shock. A letter, bubbling with dark brown ooze, dropped to the floor. Harper keeled over in pain, swearing rapidly under his breath.

"Fuckshitdamnhellpisser!" he spat.

Fearfully, Lottie drew several handkerchiefs from her robes (a necessity for all janitors), and handed them to him. Harper raised his head and said in a tight voice, "I think you'll have to wipe it off for me. But be careful," he added, as Lottie reached for him. "Don't touch the potion." Tears glistened in the corners of his eyes.

"Why-" she started, but shut her mouth when Harper slowly straightened up and presented his hands. They were covered with the frothing potion, and already, its effects were taking place. His fingers had curled into each other and sealed together, claws began to sprout from the folded joints. Straw-coloured fur sprouted up between his knuckles.

"Paws!" she gasped. Harper grimaced. Lottie hastily put on her rubber gloves and gingerly wiped the goo off. "It turned yer hands into paws!" she repeated, unbelieving.

"By fucking hell it did!" he snapped, and she flinched. "So… so sorry," he said weakly. "It only hurts." Lottie quickly wiped off the last bit of potion and dropped the soiled cloths into the wastebasket.

"Who… who sent tha' tae ye?" She stooped down and picked up the letter by a clean corner. A piece of paper, half-smeared with the goo, still stuck to the envelope. She pulled it out and cocked her head to the side to see the single inscription:

"If you love helping wolves so much…"

"...then why don't you become one?" finished Harper, looking over her shoulder.

"They should have dun tha'!" Lottie threw the paper into the trash. "Horrible brutes! Are – are ye all richt?"

"Yeah…" Harper gritted his teeth and got up from his chair. "I'm sorry about… delaying tea like this…"

"Who cares." Lottie dismissed with a wave of her hand. "We need tae get yer tae St. Mungo's." Protectively, she slipped her gloved hand around the crook of his arm. "C'man."

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So far, Lupin's time in prison had been quite mundane. Besides being kept in a damp jail cell by the docks leading to the Nemesis Courthouse, where pleads and insane cries of passing prisoners kept him awake at all hours. Or the secret letters from Sirius that Lottie slipped to him nightly. Or the flashbacks of his second self somewhere at a training camp in Spain. No, really, when Lupin could recall exactly where he lived and what time of day it was, he was perfectly fine.

Heat. A distinct feeling of heat pervaded Lupin's mind, like he was plunged into a sauna. Sweat formed on his brow and he squinted as the dry, straw-coloured light cut through closed blinds and hit his face. The conference room was stuffy, mostly because it was built with a lot of concrete and little breathing room. Usually the unheated room was freezing, but not today. Harper had his sleeves rolled down to his elbows and his tie loosened around his neck. There were black smudges on his arms where he had rested them on the inked parchment. Lupin turned away, wiped his forehead with a blue linen handkerchief and watched Harper scribble.

_Déjà vu_ overwhelmed him. Lupin knew that the doubling effect was happening again. He could feel the sweltering summer air around him, and hear Toby's voice echo in his head. Shutting his eyes, Lupin tried to focus on this reality, one where he would be put on trial as a beast, and if convicted would be sentenced to death.

Opening them again, he saw on the bandages wrapped around the young man's hands.

"One of the janitors – Lottie – told me of an incident with a cursed envelope," he started.

Harper looked up suddenly. "What letter? The complaint mail? Hey, no problem – I get complaints fired at me all the time, sometimes not even in mail form." He laughed dismissively with a shaking of his shoulders.

"Was it more than a complaint, Mr. Harper?"

"Nothing," Harper said. "Look, I got most of it reversed." Peeling back one of the bandages, Lupin saw a mangy tuft of yellow fur growing on the back of his hand. "It's mostly harmless, and the doctor said it'll shed eventually. But, damn, it itches."

"Whoever sent that –" began Lupin.

"Shouldn't be your concern, Mr. Lupin." He scratched the back of his hand viciously while adding, "Next time, I'll wear gloves when checking my mail."

Lupin leaned forward. "As my barrister, your concerns are my own."

He saw something sad in the man's eyes, and for an instant, Harper appeared old for his age instead of young. "There's nothing you can do about it," he answered softly. "But thanks for your concern."

He continued working steady on his defence, scratching his quill languidly on the parchment. Lupin saw that his handwriting came out loopy and unsteady.

"At least let me be your scribe," he offered.

Unsurely, Harper raised his head.

"It's better than straining your hands more," he reasoned.

"Well…"

Lupin reached over and took the quill. Harper scratched his hands again quickly. "Well, I guess you better start by recopying that last page of questions," he said slowly. "Because I think that one's pretty much scrapped."

Chapter 38

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April 2nd **_The_****_ Daily Prophet _** 46

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**Werewolf Attack Case Heads to Court**

EDINBURGH – (Wizard Associated Press) Yesterday, Magistrate Minos set the date for the trial of Remus Lupin. Charged with malicious aggravated assault with intent to kill, the werewolf will go to court on April 28th. His case is to be presented by barrister Samuel Harper before the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. Head of the Committee Earl Colbert will be presiding. Barrister Hogarth Borden is slated to be on the prosecution.

Normally, crimes against Muggles committed by magical creatures are not under jurisdiction of wizarding law. Yet according to the Werewolf Code of Conduct, werewolves must be held accountable for their attacks, whether they are against Muggles or against wizards. In keeping with the Code of Conduct, if Lupin is found guilty, he would be executed by beheading at dawn.

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April 3rd _Witch Weekly _ 56

_Ideas & Opinions_

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Taming the Big Bad Wolf

By Mala Ouseley

From childhood tales, creatures of darkness have risen out of the shadows to terrify us into obeying early bedtimes. Sure, there were the vampires who drain your arteries, the hags who steal your livers, and the giants who bake your bones into bread. But while vampires and hags have been almost exterminated from the country and the giants have been reduced to a few shrinking mountain tribes, one threat is still constant in wizard society: the werewolf. Unlike other Dark Creatures, werewolves have been able to thrive and multiply, despite harsh procreation laws and diligent efforts by the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures (DRCMC). In the last year alone, statistics show that 200 new werewolves have been registered worldwide, and an additional estimated 500 have been created and remain unregistered. With this growing threat, the lives of human beings everywhere are being endangered.

The worst of all is that werewolves prey on any human within reach. As a result, ignorant Muggles have often been victims to werewolf attacks. Most often, they are killed outright and the DRCMC only has to cover up the evidence of the Muggles' deaths, with the help from special Unspeakable group that work in cooperation with the department. There comes the occasional attack, however, when the Muggle survives. That is the case of Mary Grisham, the seven-year old Muggle now dumped in the lap of the DRCMC.

But while one girl can easy be taken care of, her maker is the more complicated problem. Remus Lupin isn't the average werewolf, like the rogue beasts who run wild in the forest. He was bitten at the young age of six, before his official magical education began. All common sense would deny him the chance to give this beast wizard magic. However, Albus Dumbledore, as headmaster for the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has been known for bouts of irrational, liberal thinking. He was the one who persuaded the school allowed Lupin to attend the school. But now that one of his "affirmative action" projects has been accused of a serious crime, more and more people have begun to question the werewolf's place in society. Have we wizards gone too far? With the outcries for equal rights, have we forgotten the sanctity of human safety?

Werewolves throughout the age have been a thorn in the sides of humans. Records of werewolves first appeared in the travel logs of Sigmund Snorrason, who travelled up to the far Lappland of northern Europe. He described them as "vicious wolf-creatures of great height and strength, with long, dripping fangs, and a thick, swarthy hair that covered their bodies from head to foot." Snorrason also mentioned how these "wolf-men" would attack and pillage whole villages and special "hunters, with swords and shields of pure silver" were sent to hunt them down.

Throughout the Medieval Ages, werewolf clans swept across the continent, terrorising entire kingdoms, Muggle and wizard. Thousands of victims were killed, mostly Muggles, and many more had been infected and became monsters themselves. As a result, means of control were established. Werewolf hunters made bounties worth hundreds of Galleon for every werewolf head they turned in. Herbal repellents like Wolfsbane were cultivated and its poison was used on arrowheads and sword blades. Silver became a commodity in highly infested places like France, Russia, and Transylvania.

Finally, the first meeting of the International Confederation of Wizards addressed the problem of whether non-wizard magical creatures should be allowed to obey wizard law. The consensus made was that if a creature was sentient enough to understand the law, then it should have to obey it. Werewolves had been stuck in the middle of such classification, though, because when they are in their wolf forms – and at their most dangerous – they lose their human reasoning.

The final solution to this problem does not lie in compromise and diplomacy. Werewolves have been created by nature as a beast that can kill. Death and malice are werewolves' only company. Unlike goblins with their financial duties, werewolves cannot be made useful to wizards. The only solution then, is to contain these monsters of the night.

Many countries have already adopted anti-lycanthrope laws that restrict and reduced werewolf numbers. International breeding laws ban bitten werewolves (or "loners") from procreation and restrict natural-born werewolves to breeding only with other registered clans. Here in England, the Umbridge Decree on Part-Human Employment prohibits werewolves from holding jobs in highly populated areas. In France, werewolves pay an extra "Magical Creature Tax" in order to live among humans. Many Eastern European countries forbid werewolves to come in contact with humans at all and live in special Unplottable areas in the high mountains.

America, however, has the most admirable laws against werewolves. Ever since European wizards discovered America in 1490, only a couple years before the Muggle Christopher Columbus, they immediately introduced methods to subdue hostile creatures. America had possessed a werewolf population almost five times larger than that in Europe, but because of advanced magical methods, over half the population was exterminated in less than 100 years. As werewolf clans escaped further west, joining their native Muggle heathen, wizards cleverly tricked them into giving up more and more of their land. Several treaties were made to hostile werewolf tribes, were simple common trinkets were exchanged for whole tracks of land. Any antagonistic werewolves who attacked wizard explorers were shot with silver and burned, using superior weapons that rendered the simple savages helpless.

Later on, the established wizard government bargained with the werewolf clans of North America. They drew up a special reservation land for those beasts in Alaska. There, the American wizards promised that those wolves self-government and equal rights withy wizards. What those werewolves didn't realise was that area was blocked off specifically for them, far in the cold tundra where no one would bother to live except the ancient native werewolves of the Arctic Circle. Many of the North American clans protested and fought back, but their rallies were easily squashed by wizard authorities. The final round-up of all werewolves took place during the 1950s, with all newly bitten wolves and the last of the natural-borns gathered up by wizard officials and taken to the Alaskan Concentration Zone. In the north, the wolves can be content in living their own way of life, far away from wizards.

Several security measures have been taken with the American wolves of course. Every occupant at the camp is labelled with a magical brand that tracks them in case of escape. A fifty-foot high fence had been set up around the perimeter of their territory. Every month, MGA agents come to inspect the Zone and monitor the werewolf villages.

So in less than 500 years, the American wizards have solved a problem that still plagues the wizards of Europe. The American plan is worth emulating. Already, Transylvania had developed their own smaller version of the Alaskan Concentration Zone for their werewolves in the mid-1980s, and several other states in the Baltic region are considering branding all of their werewolves living in Unplottable locations. Activist groups like People's Association for Werewolf Security (P.A.W.S.), a reformed version of a past controversial anti-lycanthrope group, call for all registered werewolves to be magically "tagged" as well.

With werewolf crimes on the rise, shouldn't the wizards in MoM work more for the people to ensure peace of mind from werewolf attacks? It is high time we tamed the Big Bad Wolf.

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April 7th _The__ Quibbler_ Issue 25

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**Remus Lupin: Savage Beast, or Something Else?**

Werewolves have always been a hot-button issue in society, but because of the recent flurry of activity surrounding wizard werewolf Remus Lupin, much of the public is in debate over what threat werewolves pose to the public. Sympathizers say that werewolves can pass for normal human beings for most of the month, and so much prejudice is unfair and should be condemned. Anti-lycanthrope advocates, like the political organization People's Association for Werewolf Security (P.A.W.S.) say that werewolves are half-breeds that should be forced out of wizarding world. Most medical authorities also agree that lycanthropy is a magical disease that must be eradicated.

OR IS IT?

Although the origins of werewolves are unknown, legends from old clans state that they had been granted the powers of the wolf as a gift from the gods. Wolves with extremely good pedigrees are also said to have the ability of _berserkerganga_, otherwise known as berserk rage. Many historical accounts dating back hundreds of years show evidence of werewolves going through _berserkerganga_ and then pillaging villages and killing armies in bloodlust. Some Magizoologists claim that the frenzy a werewolf goes through during its full moon hunt for humans could have been mistaken for berserk rage by ancient wizards. Other sources say, however, that _berserkerganga_ is a power different from normal werewolf abilities, and it allows a werewolf to channel its superhuman strength (and superhuman anger) while still in human form. This author believes that Berserkers still exist today and are living in secret from the wizard population.

Could Remus Lupin be one of these infamous Berserkers? The Werewolf Registry refuses to comment upon these speculations.

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April 10th _Witch Weekly _ 10

_Letters to the Editor_

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Good for you for that article on April 3rd! Half-breeds should be monitored under close supervision, if they should be allowed into our society at all. I believe that for the safety of children, whether they are Muggle or wizard, creatures like them should be kept on a leash. If these monsters can't take responsibility for their own actions, then the wizarding authorities have every right to punish them. It's the only way to keep our way of life safe from vicious attacks. Thank you to writing such a valid and thought-provoking work.

- Ursula McCormick,

Surrey

Mala, I couldn't agree with you more. Don't forget to mention that giants, trolls, vampires, and hags should be added to the list as well. The best way to live with a danger is to control it.

- Brian Castonguay

Edinburgh

Wizards should always be aware of the threat that werewolves pose to wizard interests. Though I am currently on leave for medical problems, I am a detective for the Werewolf Registry. During my career I have seen werewolves do many horrible atrocities towards humankind. Thus, I have a strong position that these beasts should be heavily monitored as long as they reside within UK borders. The suggestions Mala Ouseley had made in her editorial I had been advocating for years. Perhaps this Lupin case will prove to the wizard public once and for all the precautions we must take in handling these creatures.

- Agent Roger Parsons, Detective

Werewolf Registry

London

I never thought much about werewolves until my daughter was bitten in Transylvania three years ago. The traumatic experience has been hard for our family to cope with in general, but the lasting repercussions have been much worse. My daughter has suffered prejudice at every turn. She is now permanently unemployed, and the Healers had told her that she could never have children of her own. As a result, my daughter had come to the decision that she can't live in the UK anymore, and she is planning to move to France, where werewolf rights are marginally better. My husband and I love our daughter very much, despise the wizard laws which had made her life so difficult. Your editorial only enforces the exact same attitude that will exile my child from her homeland. If this is the stance _Witch Weekly_ takes in regard to people infected with a degenerative lifelong illness, then I'm afraid that your magazine will never grace my doorstep ever again.

- Anne Keller

Northampton

Mala Ouseley's editorial published on April 3rd is one of the reasons why I applaud your noteworthy staff writers. I live in the Islington area, and have had to deal with that horrible Safehouse in my neighbourhood for the past ten years. A kidnapper and a murderer had sprung out of that cesspool; it was only a matter of time for that dangerous place to release monsters that would pose a threat to society! I thanked the gods the day that place was shut down by MoM; now I feel much safer in this city. Thank you for putting my view into words!

- Susan Jacobson

London

Twenty years ago, I was bitten on a hiking trip in Romania, and my life has been living hell since. I wake up each morning, praying for the strength to get through the rest of the day. I work as a waiter in a pub, and I sink into a cold sweat every time the Remus Lupin case is mentioned. Do these high and mighty wizards realise that werewolves are people too, trying to cope as best as they can? Now a small voice in the back of my head is counting down the days until my employer discovers my identity, and I'll have to find another job again. My advice to Mala Ouseley is this: before you go spouting anti-lycanthrope crap, try walking in a werewolf's shoes for two moons.

- Anon.

Before Mrs. Ouseley starts writing another article about werewolves, she should note that lycanthropy is a clinical DISEASE and the people who suffer from it should be known as VICTIMS, not "monsters."

- Healer Hippocrates Smethwyck

St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries

London

Dear Staff at _Witch Weekly_: I am SO glad that you came out with your true colours. I should have sniffed out this bigotry long ago; you're no different than any other wizard paper. Wait a second, why am I even bothering to continue writing? You'd be amazed that we CREATURES know how to write! Wow! What civilised BEASTS we are! Let me tell you this: you arrogant wizards think you know everything. You think that my way of life is a sickness, that my birth was a monstrosity, and that my family is a pack of savage brutes that should be exterminated. Well, I say you can take your censored article and stuff it where the sun doesn't shine because I am _proud_ to be a werewolf. I don't want your laws or your pity. My people have lived on for thousands of years and we'll keep on living, no matter what _your_ kind will do to stop us.

- Anon.

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April 14th **_The_****_ Daily Prophet _** 37

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**Rallies planned in front of courthouse**

EDINBURGH – (Wizard Associated Press) The international organization for increased protection measures against werewolves and lycanthrope prevention, known as the People's Association for Werewolf Security (P.A.W.S.) had declared yesterday plans to hold a support rally in front of Nemesis Courthouse on April 28th at noon. This date coincides with the opening statements for the trial of Remus Lupin, a wizard werewolf charged with an assault that occurred last year in October.

Greta Haywood, Edinburgh local and head of the Northern UK chapter, is organizing the event, which will include speeches by prominent Magizoologist Richard Marlowe and Assistant to the Minister for Magic Dolores Umbridge. Wizard police estimate the crowd to be at least 500 and have ordered for local MLES to patrol the area during that time. Although some previous rallies have turned violent, this one isn't expected to turn riotous.

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April 16th **_The_****_ Daily Prophet _** 28

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**Committee for Werewolf Case Orders Closed Courtroom Because of Controversy**

EDINBURGH – (Wizard Associated Press) The Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures have made a decision today to keep the proceedings of the upcoming Lupin case a closed trial. By definition, a closed trial is only permitted when the court sees that further public exposure of the case would threaten to endanger the lives of the participants involved.

"The wizard community is reaching dangerous levels of conflict that could lead to violence," says Head of the Committee Earl Colbert. "I want to keep an orderly courtroom, and if that means banning a public audience, then so be it."

Although public spectators will not be allowed to view the trial proceedings, members of the press will still be present and to give an accurate notation of the case, which has grown into a spectacle in the past few weeks.

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April 17th _Witch Weekly _ 34

_Features_

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Bringing Down the Beast:

Crusading Mother Fights in Memory of Lost Son

By Patrick Thorton

Greta Haywood could easily be mistaken for the average suburban housewife. Dressed in her floral apron and long skirts with her hair done up in a matronly bun, you would expect her to be carrying a sheet of cookies. Instead, she holds a picket sign and in her eyes you see a stone-hard determination that no simple housewife could ever possess.

She is the leader for the Northern UK chapter for People's Association for Werewolf Security (P.A.W.S.) P.A.W.S. has been criticised as being the modern incarnate of another non-existent organization that shares the same acronym, the People Against Werewolf Societies, a hate group which had committed mass genocides in the UK and other European countries in the past 100 years. That organisation, which had been broken up in the UK with the establishment of the Werewolf Registry, faced a shady past record, being linked to lynches, murders and disappearances of known werewolves. However, Haywood stated that her chapter is a peaceful group for today's world aimed at "fighting for the protection of beings everywhere."

"My goal is safety," she said to me. "Safety for the werewolf and the wizard equally."

The woman who sat in front of me had dark eyes and mouse brown hair. She sipped her tea with his pinkie finger raised, and during the course of the interview, discreetly wiped the biscuit crumbs from her lap. Smoothly and politely, she recounted the events which led her to become the head of an organization known for their strong sentiment against these human half-breeds.

From her little velvet handbag, she produced a crinkled photograph of her son Michael. I saw a picture of a little child playing at the shore, smiling as he built a sandcastle. "He would have been 19 years old if he were still alive," she said solemnly, tears filling her eyes.

It was ten years ago when the Haywoods took a summer holiday in the mountains of Scotland. They were warned by locals that a new threat had come to the village where they resided: a werewolf had emerged from the forests and had been sighted three months ago by hikers. "We were told that he might have travelled up further north," she explained. "There was a slim chance of any danger during our stay, but it was always better to take precautions."

Yet danger had come, in the least expected way. On an overnight camping expedition in the lush mountain landscape, the family stopped to rest at the mouth of a shallow cave. Inside lurked a sleeping werewolf.

"Taylor and I had just come to bed that night," she recalled bitterly. "And next thing I knew, I woke to my son, screaming. There was this wolf – a giant one, all white and terrible – and he burst right out and… and it just happened so fast… If Taylor didn't Disapparate us right then, well…" Mrs. Haywood paused, the tears chocking her. It took a full fifteen minutes before she could be roused to speak again.

"They said it was a werewolf," she said hoarsely. "The villagers called him Lycaos."

That trauma had haunted the couple ever since. Through the tragic demise of their son, however, they gave the strength to persevere – and to prevent anything like that from happening again. The Haywoods were first introduced to P.A.W.S. as a suggestion from a friend. But it was Greta who took the motivation to become the leading activist in the area against these terrible monsters.

"It felt like the right thing to do," she said.

Among the many accomplishments that Mrs. Haywood had done in her activist career was the strong support for the Umbridge Decree on Part-Human Employment, which has passed only a couple years ago. Not only that, but she had travelled extensively around the world, fighting for harsher regulations against werewolves and werewolf communities.

Mrs. Haywood affirmed that she does not encourage violent crimes against these creatures, but instead endorses a "rightful place" for them. "And that rightful place," she said, "is not mingling with other, normal wizards."

Her ideal place for the werewolf is in special containment camps, like in America and Transylvania. She also supports stronger tracking methods for werewolves and faster registration for the newly bitten.

And what would happen should Remus Lupin be acquitted of all charges?

Mrs. Haywood only gave a twisted smile. "If this is wizard justice, they wouldn't do that," she answered gravely. "Not if they want to prevent what happened to my son from happening again to some other child. I would bet my life on that."

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April 20th _The__ Quibbler_ Issue 31

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**EXCLUSIVE!**

**My Uncle is a Werewolf!**

_Names have been changed for the safety of parties mentioned. The following was told to Editor-in-Chief Fredrick Lovegood by an anonymous contributor._

With all the hubbub going on about the Remus Lupin case, many opinions have been flying through the air about werewolves and what they are like. However, I have personal experience in the matter, considering that my uncle and close friend of mine, has been dealing with lycanthropy for over thirty years.

Uncle Joe is a nice man, somewhat stout and always smiling. He used to visit my house all the time to take part in my father's Friday night poker games. Uncle Joe always had Chocolate Frogs in his pockets, and loved to sing songs out loud at random. Whenever he came to the house, it was like having Father Christmas for the night. Well, a cigar-smoking, whisky-kicking, swearing Father Christmas, but a Father Christmas nonetheless.

He was bitten when I was only a young child, so I couldn't understand what happened to him at first. My parents told me one day that Uncle Joe couldn't come over to the house anymore; they said he got hurt while travelling through the mountains the week before, and I wouldn't be able to see him for a long, long time. I took that to mean that Uncle Joe must have broken his leg or something, not that he had been bitten by a werewolf.

When I did see Uncle Joe again months later, he was a changed man. He had grown thinner than I remembered, and his face was ashen grey. He limped in his right leg all the time, and just before it would rain, he would clasp his knee and wince for some reason. Uncle Joe still smiled, but it was a weak version of the great big, jolly grins he used before. He seemed quieter, more contemplative. Uncle Joe also drank much more.

He talked about his illness the first time we saw each other again. "Danny boy," he said to me, taking a swallow from a flask that appeared the same time as his limp, "I'm not as healthy as I used to be. I got a bad bite in the mountains, kid. That's got side effects. It makes me more tired all the time, and it hurts a lot during certain parts of the month."

"Why?" I had asked.

"Because then I turn into a wolf. That's the side effect, y'see?"

I then asked whether I could see him turn into a wolf and play with him, and then he laughed and said, "That wouldn't be too fun to watch, kid. Wolves aren't the same as dogs. When I turn into a wolf, playing fetch would be the last thing on my mind."

Years passed, and Uncle Joe came to the house less and less. I'm not sure whether my parents welcomed him as much as they used to, but whenever I asked them about Uncle Joe, my father would only give a tight-lipped smile and say, "Uncle Joe's sick now. It's not safe for him to be around the house as much. It's not good for him."

Uncle Joe comes to see me at my flat about once or twice a year now. No longer is he the Father Christmas I once knew. His clothes are often mended and too large for his thin frame. His face is pale and unshaven, and he is always begging money from my wife and me when he comes.

"I'll change my ways, I swear, Danny boy," he tells me. "I'll get a job down in London, where the good jobs are. Then I'll get the nice house that I used to have, and your father will want me back on Friday nights. I'm going be respectable, kid, you just wait and see."

I never told him that my father died five years ago, because my mother never invited him to the funeral.

Then I would hand Uncle Joe some more money, although my wife warns me not to, and he gets up from the kitchen table, takes his flask, and leaves. Always, there is a Chocolate Frog left on the table to give to my son.

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April 28th **_The_****_ Daily Prophet _** 8

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**Opening Statements for Werewolf Case Scheduled for Today**

EDINBURGH – (Wizard Associated Press) The trial which has been gathering controversy like a maelstrom is set to begin today at Nemesis Courthouse with opening statements from both sides.

The local P.A.W.S. chapter led by Greta Haywood is reported to continue with its rally on anti-lycanthrope sentiment on the steps of the Courthouse. Magical Law Enforcement officials will be on duty in front of the Courthouse to ensure that the rally will remain peaceful. Officers will also accompany the defendant Remus Lupin and his barrister Samuel Harper to court to ensure their safe passage. A representative from the Ministry of Magic states that although the tension will be high, it will be sure to "enforce order today and throughout the remainder of the trial."

The trial will be held in a closed courtroom, with limited media coverage and no public audience.

Chapter 39

The rain poured down heavily on the streets of Nice. Three cloaked forms huddled by the front gates of the large townhouse. Little sparks flew, dying as they hit the falling raindrops. Whispers came from them, so low that no one, unless he was sitting right above them, could hear a word.

Another figure, hunched over on the wall in a giant oilcloth cloak, could hear those insolent French comments perfectly.

"Hurry up, before we catch the Beast's attention."

"I'm trying to," said the one etching into the plaque with the tip of his wand. "This takes careful work, you know."

"I'm getting cold," the third one complained, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"Stop whining; this was your idea," said the first.

"I didn't know it would storm tonight like this."

"Quiet!" snapped the vandal. "The intercom's right there!"

"As if the Beast is actually awake. Want me to smash in the gate controls too? That would be funny; he and his cripple would really be trapped in this cage!"

The figure in the oil cloak jumped down from the brick wall and splashed into a puddle behind them, but the trio was too preoccupied to notice. The oil cloak opened, and a nearby streetlamp shined upon cool, silvery metal. Heavy footsteps walked toward them.

"Shut up you! I can't concentrate."

_"What are you doing to my property?"_

In an instant, a dark hulk rushed into them, scattering the three into the flooded gutters. Before any of the hooligans could react, the vandal was caught in the cloaked figure's grip and pinned to the brick wall by his coat lapels.

"Jacques!" one of the other exclaimed.

_"SILENCE!"_

A sword, ancient in fashion but sharp and clean, pressed against young Jacques' throat.

_"What are you doing on my property?"_ The speaker's voice sounded almost inhuman, like a raw growl moulded to form words.

"I'm-I'm sorry," squeaked Jacques. The blade was pressed closer. Blood smeared the silver metal. Jacques make a strange, choking noise and began to cry.

The two other youths took a step forward, but next threat put a halt to them_. "If you try anything, I will kill you too."_

"Don't do anything!" Jacques gasped. He tried to see his captor's face, but the night and the darkness within the speaker's hood prevented this.

_"Good boy."_ A chuckle. _"What is a poor little runt doing fouling up my front gate?"_

"I-"

_"Speak LOUDER!"_

"I…I don't know…" His tears mixed in with the rain. "It was Fredrick's idea!"

_"Ah…"_ Then, in almost a playful tone, the speaker called over his shoulder, _"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Fredrick, how can you be such a bad influence on your friends? If Jacques should come back to Beauxbatons with his head in a bag, what will the Assistant Headmaster say? What will Madam Maxime say, when she gets an Owl Post tomorrow that one of her precious, pathetic boys was decapitated?"_

Fredrick and the third wizard didn't say a word. The figure turned his head to see the two boys backing away.

_"Don't run away!"_ the figure laughed. The blade pressed in; Jacques made a strange, garbled noise.

"Please, monsieur, don't hurt him," the first wizard begged.

_"Is Fredrick not begging in his friend's defence?"_

"Fredrick?"

"I know, Philippe!" Fredrick's voice trembled. "Please, please don't do anything. We meant no harm."

_"Do you agree with this, Jacques?"_

"Yes," he squeaked. Suddenly, the boy was dropped to the ground. He fell unceremoniously on his rear end, clutching his throat.

_"I will count to ten,"_ the figure said. _"And if your ugly little faces are not gone from my sight, I will slay you. One."_

Jacques scrambled to his feet, gasping.

"Run!"

_"Two."_ The figure turned. Fredrick, in a brave move, flourished his wand.

_"Expelliarmus!"_

The spell whished by harmlessly, and the figure, without making a noise, bounded forward and grabbed Fredrick by the shoulders. Philippe and Jacques were already running down the street, not looking back.

_"Trying to have the last word, little wizard?" _Fredrick was picked up off his feet. The figure wrenched the boy's wand from his flailing hands, and in one swift move, the figure rapped it on the boy's head. The wand cracked in half, and Fredrick dropped to the ground. At that moment, the hood fell. Glowing blood red eyes stared back at him. Fredrick, forgetting his broken wand, scrambled back on all fours, blubbering.

_"LEAVE!" _

The boy finally got to his feet and ran, screaming, "Jacques! Philippe! Don't Disapparate without me!"

Bernard stood motionless for several minutes after Fredrick had disappeared around the corner. Raindrops plastered down his white hair and ran in rivulets down his oilcloth cloak. His eyes stared ahead, nearly blind without glasses. The old Bisclaveret sword, taken from its display in the upstairs hallway, hung down against his side if it was an extension of his hand. The beaten gold and silver design seemed to glow in the darkness.

Now sure that the hooligans were gone, Bernard sheathed his sword and turned around. He removed his glasses from his inside pocket, wiped them clean of lint, and put them on. Giving a sigh, Bernard went over to inspect the gate. Those wizards had only started vandalising it, and only a few random marks of the P.A.W.S. symbol – part of a dagger-like handprint – were finished.

He grumbled to himself, before going to the intercom and punching in the password to open the gate. Then, after closing the gate behind him, Bernard grabbed the ladder by the wall and collapsed it in a few short moves. He carried the ladder under his right arm, to avoid knocking it into his sheathed sword, and propped it by the garden shed near the wall. The mundane task finished, Bernard then lumbered down the rain-soaked pathway to the house and opened the front door.

Claire sat in her chair in the hallway, holding a towel.

"Welcome home," she said flatly.

Bernard, startled, asked, "How long have you been standing here?"

"Since I saw you out my window, threatening little boys in front of the house." She threw the towel at him; Bernard made no move to catch it, and the towel slapped against his wet shoulder.

"What do you think you were doing?" Claire asked. "Making a spectacle of yourself?"

"If we don't teach them while they're young, then-"

"Oh, stop trying to pretend to be the hero. It makes me ashamed."

"What did you expect me to do? Call the police on them?"

"At least I thought you had the maturity not to go around wielding about a hunk of metal to scare off children!"

"They are more than children!" Bernard unbuckled his sword and slammed it on the side table. "Innocence be damned, Claire; they think we are _monsters_, every one of them!"

"And do you think strutting about in the rain like that will help salvage our _monstrous_ reputation?" Claire gazed at him with narrowed eyes. "I thought you understood better than that."

"I thought_ you_ understood. We cannot sit on our hands and watch others terrorize us. Wizards do not listen to our words; they do not believe that we even have coherent thoughts. They think of us nothing more than mere brutes, and if our intelligence does not help us, maybe it's time that we give them a message they are sure to understand."

"Bernard…" Claire shook her head. "Why are you saying this? This… It's not like you."

"But you agree with me, don't you?" He took the family sword in his hands. "You know…I always thought you would like this. That was why you lowered yourself by running around with those street wolves. Freedom Hounds, right? That pack of mutts—"

"It wasn't like that!" Claire backed her chair away towards the doorway. "Our ways may be a bit subversive, but they never escalated into open threats of violence—" She caught herself at those words, but Bernard cut her off, not noticing her hesitation.

He took a step forward with the sword. "Don't lie," he said softly. "I knew. I knew all along."

"Knew what?" Her hands gripped the wheels.

"You were right, Claire. That the only way to get through this was through action."

"Oh." Claire's eyes darted between Bernard and the nearest exits, through the kitchen or into the parlour. She had never seen her brother behave like this before; it frightened her. "Bernard," she said sharply. "Stop being an idiot and put down that sword."

"What?" Bernard looked down at his hands, which had been wrapped around the gold hilt. He gave a sheepish chuckle and slumped against the wall, bumping into the coat rack. "Oh, um, I'm sorry… Didn't mean to scare you too…"

Putting the sword back on the table, Bernard then took off the dripping oil cloak. He still wore his day clothes: black shoes, grey trousers and white button-up shirt with a charcoal silk vest. Seeing him sitting in the middle of an ordinary foyer with a medieval sword turned the entire scene into one giant anachronism.

"This is about more than just a bunch of hooligans, isn't it?" Claire asked.

"I suppose so." Bernard ran a hand through his wet hair. "The past few weeks with all the commotion about Remus Lupin's trial… This trial has made me think a lot about us and the law…"

"Don't you start–"

"I feel helpless. Wizards say that they believe in justice and fairness. But there is not such thing as justice for a wolf. Even when you are hurt by one of those bastard Ministry men –"

"Stop connecting everything with me."

"I can't help it!" Bernard snapped. "I'm sick of the silence, Claire. I'm sick of blundering about with wizard bureaucracy. I'm sick of all this waiting, knowing that someone out there has gotten away with a crime against my own family! It's-it's-" He scrambled for a word, and then blurted out, "-illogical!"

"What you were doing was illogical. We have to….to move on. We cannot let the past destroy us. Now stop this nonsense immediately."

"I won't stop until you stop deluding yourself. Now say it."

"Say what?" she snapped. "Are you too thick not to realise what happened to me by now?"

"Don't try to get out of this by insulting me!" Bernard half-rose to his feet, but restrained himself. "I'm tired of avoiding this issue."

"You can't _force_ me to say anything!" Claire retorted. Several seconds of silence passed. She could see him visibly trembling, waving between instance shame and fury.

Finally, she said in a quiet tone, "Do you want to hear it?"

A small sound, unusual from such a large man. "Yes."

"During…. During my interrogation at the Ministry last December, I was assaulted by an officer." Her tone weakened. "Then, on the night of full moon..." Tears filled her eyes but did not spill over. "He came to my cell with the Wolfsbane Potion. I would not drink it. We got into a fight. He silenced me with a charm. I couldn't yell at all. I couldn't fight back. Not even when… when it happened." Bernard stared back at her, his face a mask. "Because I didn't not drink the potion, I turned mad with the transformation. I could not control my wolf. And I got hurt." A large lump, which had begun forming in her throat after the first few words, had grown so large she could barely speak. Her lips kept moving, but no sound could come out. She hunched forward, hugging herself.

Very slowly, Bernard rose from his seat and went over by his sister's side. He put his arms around her and rested his head against her shoulder. For several minutes, neither one of them said a word. Claire felt like she had broken away from the earth for a few moments, and the next time she became fully aware again, she noticed how her brother's shoulders were shaking, and now damp her sleeve had become.

She put a hand against the back of his head. "Is this what you wanted to hear? How weak and pathetic I am for not doing anything? I couldn't even get up the strength to press charges. You were right. I should have fought back. But I am a coward."

"I am the coward, for not doing anything about this sooner. I did not want to do anything, I was a fool…" Bernard squeezed her tightly and then loosened his hold. Claire could see that his eyes were rimmed red from crying, but his voice remained quiet and firm. "Who did this?"

"He was a detective for the Werewolf Registry." The words hurt as she squeezed them out past her dry lips. "His name was Roger Parsons."

"Roger Parsons." Bernard's teeth ripped into the name as he spoke. "Roger Parsons." He broke away from her grip. "He did this…" Claire grabbed his arms and pulled him down to her level again before he could get away. Her fingers dug into him. She could see the rage thunder in his eyes.

Teeth clenched, she said, "You can't do anything to him."

"Why?" he bellowed. "The wizard should die!"

"Because he's on the prosecution in the upcoming trial," Claire said. "He's testifying against Remus."

8888

Screams. The noontime crowds were screaming before the Nemesis Courthouse.

Most of them held signs, ranging from little placards to huge magicked signs on boards, with the slogans blinking across the surface.

One demonstrator held up a stuffed doll with a wolf's head and hung it from the end of his broomstick. He waved it wildly, making the straw limbs flail. Immediately, the officers took the effigy away, in fear of voodoo magic. The wizards, enraged, shook his fists and yelled, "That's what he deserves! That's what all of them deserve!"

A middle-aged woman with a matronly bun pushed herself in front of him. "I'll have none of that at my rally," she whispered fiercely. Pushing him with forcefulness unexpected from a homemaker like her, she added, "Get out before I take you out."

The man glared back at Greta Haywood with obvious scorn, but quickly waved his wand hand and Disapparated. Greta was all for free speech, but if some fool's antics was going to give her chapter of the People's Association for Werewolf Security a bad name, then she'd rather see him thrown in jail than that wolf Lupin.

Over the years, Greta learned that the public always holds assumptions about people, and what she tried hard with P.A.W.S. was to dispel the organization's negative past. No, she was not out to hang wolves from trees, to burn their homes, to push them into a life of exile. Greta considered herself to be a freedom fighter by fighting for the freedom for the half-breeds and for normal wizards.

She scanned the crowd to see if the rabble-rouser had brought any friends. No one else seemed suspicious. Most of the rally attendants she had met at one time or another during her past ten years as an advocacy worker. Many were wearing the P.A.W.S. insignia armbands. In the past, when the organization had a more sinister agenda, their symbol had been a blood-red human hand print in a crimson circle. That was the first thing to go when she became chapter leader. Now, the simple bright blue circle around a white star became the organization logo. Blue for peace, white star for hope and change.

Making her way to the raised platform near the front of the courthouse, she stopped by a small tent where her two headlining speakers rested away from the rest of the rally. Lifting the tent flap, Greta saw Dolores Umbridge and Dr. Richard Marlowe both sitting at a table, taking part in the refreshments laid out upon it.

"Hello there, Mrs. Haywood," Dr. Marlowe greeted, taking a bite from a chocolate chip cookie. He was a man who spent his days surrounded by a lot of scrolls and books and very little fresh air; the Magizoologist had the gut and the pale skin to show for it. "How's the rally looking?"

"Packed," Greta answered. "Nearly 600 people, according to the MLES officers' head counts. More than I expected."

"Wonderful." Crumbs slipped upon Dr. Marlowe's shirt and he brushed them off with a napkin. "These cookies are delicious, by the way."

"Thank you," Greta smiled. "It's an old family recipe."

Umbridge, who only kept a small cup of lemonade in her hand, said curtly, "I expect that you have my introduction ready?"

Greta pulled out a neatly folded piece of parchment with a tight smile. Umbridge had a good reputation for being a hard-liner when it came to Dark Creature affairs, but that was the only reason she was invited to speak today. It wasn't even Greta's own idea, but a suggestion from one of her chapter's board members. After all, Dolores Umbridge had contributed greatly to this chapter for the past several years…

Taking the parchment away swiftly, Umbridge unfolded it and scanned it thoroughly.

"I graduated with honours," she criticised tersely, whopping out a quill. "And don't forget to mention how I sponsored that Giant Relocation Proclamation a few years back as well."

"Of course."

"Well," Umbridge commented dryly, noticing the tone of Greta's voice, "You must remember to get all the facts straight before introducing your star speaker."

"Certainly. I wouldn't dare retract from the privilege of having you here."

_This is only the Galleons talking_, she thought. _If not, I would smack you in your toady gullet._

Greta glanced at her watch, and thankfully, the time was only a few minutes before the scheduled speech.

"I hate to rush, but I have to get the crowd geared up," she said in a more chipper mood than she felt as she snatched the parchment away from Umbridge. "I'll see you both in a jiffy."

Dr. Marlowe waved before she left, while the Assistant to the Minister only sniffed at her lemonade. Greta left before she would do something to make Umbridge do more than sniff.

Now out of the tent, Greta climbed onto the raise platform where the speeches were to take place. Surveying the many faces around her, Greta took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She always became nervous at public speaking, but the queasiness in her stomach passed when she remembered her purpose. Waving a _Sonorus_ spell over her throat, she then gave an open smile.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome!"

The mass of rally attendees looked up at the volume of her voice and instantly started to cheer. Greta raised her hands up for silence, and after a few moments of applause, she began again.

"Thank you, thank you everyone out here on such a bright and warm day! It makes me and the Northern UK chapter for P.A.W.S. feel so grateful to see all this support for our cause."

With all the butterflies gone now, the housewife advocate plunged into her speech. "Our current crusade began months ago, when news first broke of the horrible attack upon this innocent little girl, Mary Grisham. She's only a Muggle, true, but when I first read that article in the _Daily Prophet_ about her, my heart reached out towards her like any mother's heart would. When she went missing, I kept seeing my own son's face instead of hers. And I thought of the hundreds of victims families out there, who have suffered all the same plight of the werewolf. Muggle or wizard, we are all victims together. I followed little Mary's story very closely the following months, until she was found – miraculously – in Brighton last December."

Taking out an enlarged photograph of a young, scared-looking girl, she continued, "I visited her at St. Anne's Home a few weeks after she was found. She was alone, scared and very confused. What happened to her in the hands of… of Mr. Lupin we do not fully understand even today, but on that cold January afternoon I saw that she deserved something better than this pain."

Greta closed her eyes for a moment. She could never make it through her usual stump speech without feeling this ache build up in her chest. In two weeks it would have been Michael's birthday. The little girl, Mary, had bright blue eyes, just like her son had...

Swallowing hard, she opened her eyes and said in a stronger tone, "For her and for us, all the victims of these horrible attacks. And that is why we are standing together today, to send a message to the Ministry of Magic. We, the wizards of Edinburgh and throughout the entire country, stand united to prevent such atrocities from happening ever again to our dear children. We will not rest until our courtrooms decide the proper fate for Remus Lupin, and receive the justice little Mary Grisham deserves!"

8888

Lupin stood in the pen, waiting for Harper to arrive. He swore that he could hear the faint cheers outside, even from this deep within the building. In his mind, he tried to block out the thought of hundreds of wizards standing outside, rooting for his death. For that was the only option for him: as a beast, if Lupin was declared guilty, nothing would remain for him but the chopping block and Macnair's grinning face.

He expected to have a rush of emotions storm through him, but either they were moving too fast for him to detect, or he really wasn't feeling anything at all. Instead, all of his senses became heightened as if by magic and not apprehension: the lights glared sharper, the air tasted dry and stale on his tongue, little sounds of footsteps from above echoed through his ears. After all this time and all this waiting, his trial was about to begin.

A few minutes before twelve-thirty, Lupin saw Harper approach the pen. Recalling Harper's nervous rush the first time they went into the courtroom, seeing him march along with calm determination was surprising. Then again, Harper had been overdosing on nicotine the last time he had walked down this corridor to see him, so acting a bit mellow may be a good sign. Unless he had a few shots of whiskey to make him mellow.

The young barrister ran a hand through his straw hair; his palms were still bandaged from the attack in the mail. The guards opened the door and escorted Lupin out, before checking to see that his manacles were on tightly. Harper was a palm-sweater, surely; his bandages were already damp when he gripped Lupin's hand. His other hand clutched at his briefcase so tightly that the knuckles were white.

"How are you keeping?" Lupin asked.

"I should be asking you that," Harper said in a low, but shaking voice. "Me? Scared shitless, as always." He gave a tight smile.

"Better now than later. You had a smoke?"

"Hell yes. I'm going to go up like a chimney for the next few days." Harper opened his suit jacket to show full pack tucked into the inside of his jacket. He gave a dry laugh as he patted his jacket.

Both looked down the corridor out to the main hallway. The pair of guards flanked Lupin on either side while Harper moved in front of him. Silently, they walked down the hallway, with the sound of their heavy footsteps filling their ears.

Lupin half-expected the flock of the media to come swooping down the hallways, but, oddly enough for a busy courthouse, the whole place was empty except for a couple of rushing wizards in dress robes. Of course there should be flashing bulbs from cameras or the outcries of an infuriated public – but Lupin had a closed trial at the request of the Committee, which feared complete disorder should the public be let in.

Still, each of them could hear the dull roar from the crowd outside, rumbling like a fire.

They walked into the courtroom for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Lupin once again saw the splendid display of power and glory in the highly detailed columns and the fine-wooden bench. Instead of having the single seat for the Magistrate as it was for Lupin's hearing, there was now a wide mahogany table with a glass top stretched before the front of the courtroom. Because this was a closed court, the room seemed wider and emptier for the want of spectators. Only a short man with thinning hair sat off to the side, with notebook and quill in hand: the single press representative from _The Daily Prophet_. A courtroom artist sat beside him; her tongue suck out at the corner of her mouth as she quickly sketched out the scene.

There was one other marked difference in the room: a large and rough-hewn cage stood in the middle. Rust and dirt still clung to its bars, making it appear unworthy to stand in the centre of the splendid courtroom. The bailiff opened up the cage door. Harper patted Lupin's shoulder, as if he was the one needing reassurance, and Lupin walked into the cage without hesitation. The gate slammed shut, sending flakes of rust and specks of dust to the floor. Inside, there was a single stool for him to sit on, but Lupin remained standing.

Harper propped his briefcase on a table to the left of him; prosecutor Hogarth Borden had already set up on the other side.

The bailiff moved forward to give an introduction all of them had heard before. "All rise and remain standing!"

The screech of chair legs being pushed back along the marble floor. The side door opened, and seven wizards and witches solemnly came out. Most of them were quite old; the men donned long spindly beards and a couple of the women were assisted with canes or walkers. The youngest in the group was the middle-aged executioner, a relative newcomer to the Committee. Walden Macnair flashed a yellow-toothed grin at Lupin, as if envisioning his head falling into the basket already. Lupin felt his insides churn with that look, but stopped himself from shuddering.

"Hear ye, hear ye! This session for the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures shall now proceed, Head of Committee Magistrate Earl Colbert presiding. All creatures having business therein can now be heard. You may be seated."

The Committee Head Colbert sat in the centre, and Macnair sat on his right-hand side. This was not a very comforting thought to Lupin as she sat back down on his stool. Lupin recognized Earl Colbert from several months ago: he was the wizened wizard who went with Macnair for Buckbeak's execution. The passing months added to the Head of the Committee's weariness and as he sat down, a couple of uncomfortable creaks were heard. Colbert fished into his robes, took out a gavel and a small bottle of pills and set them both before him.

Other than Colbert and Macnair, Lupin didn't recognize any of the Committee members. There were three men and two women, all now settled in their seats, straightening their robes, wiping their thick glasses, and pouring themselves glasses of water from the pitchers on the table. Colbert gestured his frail hand toward the bailiff, allowing him to proceed.

"Now opening case number 765-876-934: The UK Ministry of Magic vs. Remus Lupin. May the defense and prosecution please rise and approach the judge. Please state your appearances for the record."

Déjà vu to the last hearing. Lupin shook his head a bit as Harper rose calmly to his feet. No hyper hi-jinks here. "Samuel Harper, representing the defendant." He turned to look at Borden with a steady eye.

Borden returned that glance with a slightly more aloof expression. "Hogarth Borden, for the Ministry. May I proceed, your Lord?"

"You may, Mr, Borden."

Raising himself to his full flabby stature, Borden gave a knowing smile to the men and women sitting before him.

He began grandly, "Your Lord Magistrate Earl Colbert, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Committee, my dear colleague Mr. Harper," with a pseudo-friendly gesture of the hand which Harper promptly ignored, "we are gathered here to contemplate a terrible crime that occurred on the night of October 18th in the small village of Havenshire.

"The victim: seven year-old Mary Grisham, a Muggle minister's daughter. Imagine this little child, hair up in pigtails, wearing a little jumper. Imagine her walking home from church, where she would play with her doll Lydia in the evenings. She was not afraid at all, for her house was located right next door. Her father, who had sent her out, never feared that something in the darkness would be waiting for her.

"Ms. Grisham walked barely a dozen metres from her home when she saw Mr, Lupin, watching her as a werewolf. Did she fear him? Did she expect anything more from this apparent stray? No, Ms. Grisham was not. She was innocent, as innocent as a lamb."

Borden took a gentle turn with his voice at this point. Lupin wanted to shut his ears.

_The darkness.__ It was night and the white moonlight stretched out the shadows. Little girl, with curious eyes. Hand extended. "Doggie, are you okay?"_

"She approached Mr. Lupin when he collapsed under a nearby streetlamp. She was worried about him. Worried. And so she extended her tiny hand…"

_Young flesh. Sweet flesh. Fresh. Meat._

Lupin shut his eyes. Borden's narrative washed over him like a guilty conscience. "And he attacked her. His jaws clamped down around her arm, right above the shoulder. His wolf jaws were large enough to tear off her entire limb. Imagine his hot, rancid breath on her neck. Now, imagine her screams."

_Stop. Stop, don't listen, don't even try to listen anymore. Stop, stop, stop, STOP._

"Her body, weighing a mere 22 kilograms, was dragged a distance of one hundred metres across the street and into the forest. Blood trailed behind her. She was fighting, kicking, screaming. But did he let her go? No. Imagine her crying for her mother. For her father. Imagine the pure terror that she must have felt. Imagine in her bewilderment, her fear."

Borden barely spoke above a whisper now. Lupin knew this was a trick, a horrible barrister trick, to pull people in.

"Now," the prosecutor said slowly. "Just imagine that this was your child."

He let those final words sink in for a few moments. Then on cue, he straightened up and raised his voice to its normal, booming level. "The prosecution seeks to prove that Mr. Remus Lupin, the beast who before you, is a highly dangerous threat to society. Today, we will present two witnesses who will testify to his wild and reckless behaviour. It shall be up to the Committee to decide whether Mr. Lupin is a dangerous creature and if so, he must face the consequences of his actions. The prosecution hopes to bring Mary Grisham justice on this day. Thank you."

If that speech had been a stage monologue, a theatre audience would be giving a standing ovation. Instead, Colbert only nodded his head curtly and unscrewed his bottle of pills. Popping a couple of them into his mouth, he crunched loudly, then said in a mild voice, "Does the defense chose to present their opening statement?"

"Yes, your Lord." Harper got up and walked in front of the defendant table, so he could stand alongside Lupin in his cage.

Harper looked down and took a few deeps breaths. His hands clutched at the cards he held, and for a moment, Lupin feared another fainting spell. But then, Harper looked up at the Committee and began. "Your Lord Magistrate Colbert, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Committee, the honoured Prosecution Mr. Borden, I would like to present to you a story."

His voice cracked a bit mid-sentence, and Macnair gave a snort. Harper started for a moment, looked to Lupin quickly as if for help, but then faced forward again and rolled ahead with his speech.

"This is a story of a man named Remus Lupin, who had faced several hardships throughout his life. A man who has dealt with years of closed doors, biting words, scornful glances, and wilful ignorance. A man who overcame many obstacles in order to find warm shelter, food on the table, clothes on his back." Harper's voice lost its shakiness by now, and he seemed to look toward a spot right above the Committee's heads as if addressing a higher being. But Lupin knew that if Harper did this only because of he looked at the Committee straight in the face, he would probably have a panic attack.

"The defense does not deny the charges my client faces, but I would like to file a claim for his innocence nature. There is a difference between being condemned by the law and being condemned by one's self. Human law only casts a shadow of justice if the creature facing that law does not see the hideousness of his own crime. My case here is to help show a story of how this one man chose to face the law in order to help live with himself."

Harper took a step towards the Committee and levelled his eyes. He strode slowly down the length of the table, taking in each of their unmoving stares. Lupin could tell that faintly, Harper's knees were trembling, but now his voice did not portray this fear. In fact, the barrister began to speaker louder and stronger than he did before. He was shaking off his nervousness like an old coat.

"Today, I wish to present this story to you. Our journey to examine my client's character. Testimonies to his character will be given by three witnesses, each from distinctly different walks of life. Through their eyes will you see the measure of Lupin's character. But, ultimately, it is up to you, my honourable Ladies and Gentlemen of the Committee, whether you shall see what my witnesses see."

Harper licked his dry lips and ended with, "Thus, it shall be left to you to be the judge of Mr. Lupin's integrity, his personality, his morals. Judgment is what this court has been delivering for centuries, and I hope that my case will enable you to decide that Mr. Lupin is only a man, not a dangerous monster. And by proclaiming his humanity, I hope you shall be in favour of his release. Thank you." He gave a brief bob of his head, then sat back down.

The man can be eloquent! There may be barrister material in him after all. Lupin flashed a grin at him and Harper gave him a thumbs-up from under the table.

Borden, who maintained a look of mild boredom throughout Harper's entire opening argument, stood up once more in a slow, luxurious manner. "If the Committee would permit it, I would like to present my first witness."

Colbert nodded. "The Committee does."

The wide wooden doors swung open.

"Then I would like to call Detective Roger Parsons to the stand."

The name ran like lightning through Lupin's head. _That bastard!_ Of course, he was investigating Lupin's case but—

Wearing his full dress uniform from the Werewolf Registry – the tall, shined black boots, the long dark blue coat with silver buttons, the stiff white gloves carrying his officer's hat – Parsons strode in with feline grace. His heavy boots barely made a sound on the smooth marble floor. He passed by both the prosecution and the defense without a single glance at either table, walking straight up to the Head of the Committee.

Lupin tried not to stare, but he could feel his heart begin to race. So this was his face… After so many weeks of wondering, how could this man have such a calm and plain-looking face?

"Raise your right hand," Colbert boomed.

The Ministry agent did so.

"Do you solemnly swear that all evidence you will give before this court is the truth and nothing but the truth? Under the pain and penalties of perjury?"

"I swear."

"Please be seated."

As he watched Parsons as he sat down in the witness stand, Lupin wished he could rip that man's throat out.

"Please state your name and occupation for the Committee."

"My name is Roger Parsons, senior detective for the Werewolf Registry."

"How long have you held this position?"

"It will be my tenth year this August."

"How many cases have you dealt with during those years?"

"Over a hundred and fifty, I'd wager."

"And how many of these cases have to do with werewolf attacks on children?"

"About seventy-five."

"Approximately what is the median age of these child victims?"

Parsons paused. "Most were young, about five or six. Oldest tend to be nine or ten."

"Could you wager how many cases were these fatal attacks?"

"Over 65 of the time, these attacks have been proven fatal."

"Given the high percentage of cases dealing with child deaths, what would you say about their werewolf attackers?"

"Werewolves tend to crave soft, young meat. In my casework I've interrogated werewolves who consider child's flesh a delicacy."  
"How many arrested werewolves who attacked children admit this opinion?"

"All of them."

"Thank you, Detective." Borden grinned at the Committee as the point hit home. He was in his element how and was relishing in it. "You say that you have interrogated many werewolves in these cases?"

"Yes, I have."

"And each one of them admitted to favour a child's flesh?"

"Most certainly."

Borden grinned again. "In your experience, what drives werewolves to crave children?"

Parsons played right into it. "It's instinctive," he said affirmatively. "The nature of the beast. No matter how much a werewolf tries to resist, seeing the delicate skin of an arm or a leg of a child is too much for him."

"Objection!" Harper burst out from his chair. "Relevance, your Lord! What do these testimonies about various other werewolves have to do specifically with my client's character?"

Borden gave an open-armed shrug. "I was merely trying to properly extrapolate what the defendant's mindset might be during his attack."

"But these statements are irrelevant to my client's individual actions. You cannot judge his mindset based against a crude generalization."

"Were you making a generalization, Detective?" Colbert asked, pushing up his glasses.

"I was only accounting observations learned from experience, your Lord." Parsons replied boldly. "This is my expert opinion only."

The Committee accepted this. "Objection overruled. You may proceed, Mr. Borden."

"Thank you." The prosecutor fired up his next line of questioning. "Detective Parsons, tell me about your last case you investigated before you left on medical leave."

Medical leave? That's what they call covering up a rapist's tracks nowadays?

"That was the case of Mary Grisham, seven-year old Muggle female from Havenshire."

"Please briefly explain the details of this case."

"I was called to the case shortly after the incident occurred on October 18th of last year. A young girl had been attacked while walking home from the town church at approximately 7 PM. There were signs of a struggle at the point of attack, with massive blood loss from the girl as she was dragged from the street and into the woods. No body had been found in the area of the crime scene, and so we marked the girl as dead."

"What did you discover later, Detective?"

"We had received reports that Ms. Grisham may not be dead, but in fact, alive and with Mr. Lupin on the lam."

"If the girl was not immediately killed, why would Lupin chose to keep her?"

Lupin got an ugly feeling with this question, as did his barrister. "Objection – speculation!"

"Sustained."

"Why do you suppose Lupin would keep this child?"

"Objection! The detective has no personal knowledge of Lupin's character, but is strictly stating his own personal opinion."

"Oh, your Lord!" Borden exclaimed, more jokingly than frustrated. "Can you see that Mr. Harper is hindering my cross-examination by using petty blocking techniques?"

"Objection! Questioning my petty blocking techniques has no relevance."

"_Mr. Harper_," Colbert started crossly, but his expression did not soften toward Borden either. "To the point, Mr. Borden, and quickly."

Borden paused – Lupin swore it was for dramatic effect – then asked slowly, "In your past experience, Detective, what has happened to the bitten children who are kidnapped by their werewolf makers?"

Parsons stared directly toward the cage as he gave his next answer. "What has happened to those victims would be unspeakable to say aloud, even in this court of law. Many have been abused by their captors: physically, mentally, emotionally… and in other ways as well."

Lupin stopped breathing at that point. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Harper was slowly clenching his fists together.

"Please clarify that last part, Detective. In what other ways have these children been abused?"

"There have been cases of sexual abuse among surviving werewolf children by their makers."

Red flashed in front of Lupin's eyes. He leaped from his stool and grabbed the bars, twisting his hands against them until the rust cut into his flesh. How dare he! Damn him! Damn that rotten hypocrite, that foul-mouth manipulative bastard! Out of all people to imply that Lupin was a-

Harper had a panicky yet insulted look in his eyes. One jump from the seat: "OBJECT-!"

_SLAM!_

Suddenly the wooden doors in the back room banged open. The guards by the door jumped to their feet and immediately blocked the entranceway, their wand arms out. A tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a heavy trench coat and a somewhat confused expression on his face stood before them, arms still in the air from pushing open the doors. Amazingly, what Lupin first noticed other than his size was how young and pale his face looked, despite the head of snow-white hair.

"Um, _excusez-moi__ s'il vous plaît_?" he inquired, straightening up. "I am… I apologize for zis intrusion. I was only looking for ze courtroom for ze… ze international procedures?" His French accent was heavy, and for a moment, Lupin thought the man's face looked vaguely familiar….

At least it did to Harper, who stood up. "Down the hallway and to the right," he instructed hastily. For some reason, the albino gentleman and Harper exchanged a quick glance before the Frenchman's eye fell upon Parsons, who met his stare with mild befuddlement.

"This is a closed courtroom, sir," Colbert said sternly, putting a hand to his temple. "I must ask you to leave immediately."

"So sorry. I 'ave many apologizes," the man said, giving a short bow. Yet the hardness of his voice cut through the sincerity of the words. "You can close ze door now," he added bluntly, walking away. "Good day."

The guards pulled the doors shut, and Colbert shook some more pills out of a small vile and popped them in his mouth. "One of these days…" he muttered under his breath, then in a louder tone, he said, "I apologize for the interruption, Mr. Harper. Were you about to-?"

"Yes, your Lord. Object." Harper said, drawing his attention away from the door. "What Detective Parsons is implying is far too speculative to be admissible in this courtroom."

Colbert looked toward his fellow Committee members. For a few moments, Lupin wondered: Did those wizards think he would hurt Mary like that? Who did they think he was? The wizards and witches talked briefly amongst themselves and scribbled notes of scraps of paper to be passed to the Head of the Committee. Macnair whispered into his ear, but the Head shook his grey beard.

A few moments later, after conferring with his colleagues' notes, Colbert straightened up and announced, "My fellow Committee members have agreed that the previous line of question was one based on assumption and not fact, and therefore shall be stricken from the record. Mr. Borden, if you are not more mindful of your questioning, I shall have to hold you in contempt."

If Borden was taken back by these harsh words, he did a superb job not showing it. As if turning a switch, he immediately moved into another set of questions. Turning to the desk, he took out a slip of parchment from one of his folders.

"Can you identify this document?"

"Yes. That's Mr. Lupin's employment record, which was created under the Umbridge Decree on Part-Human Employment."

"Have you seen this document before?"

"I had requested it myself during his background check."

"I would like to present this document as evidence under Exhibit A." Borden handed a copy of the form to the Committee and continued. "You had talked about the werewolf mindset earlier. Please briefly explain your observations about the defendant you made from investigating his case."

"Mr. Lupin is clearly fallen into a pattern of a vagabond in society. His employment record issued by the Umbridge Decree states that Mr. Lupin has a record of taking over 25 jobs in the last decade. Most of these jobs only lasted a few months before he was fired."

"Please list some of these jobs the defendant had possessed."

"Most of them were Muggle: cab driver, bus boy, dishwasher, inventory clerk. The two significant jobs in the wizarding world had been a brief tutoring job for a year with the Pendragon family. His last job had been at Hogwarts as their Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor."

"And Mr. Lupin had left all of these jobs, magical and Muggle?"

"Yes."

"Were there any reasons listed as to why Mr. Lupin had left these jobs?"

"The Muggle ones do not have the reasoning listed. However, Mr. Lupin had been fired from his tutoring position with the Pendragons and resigned from his position at Hogwarts."

"Do you know any details involving his tutoring position with the Pendragon family?"

"Very little, other than the fact that the Pendragons had two young sons, ages seven and eight."

"Thank you." Mr. Borden pasted on that satisfied smile once more.

That pig was trying to grind in the same point again! Lupin wished to explain the truth of the matter. Yes, he had been fired from the Pendragon tutoring position, but that was only because the family had been fearful idiots, like every other wizarding employer he had encountered. The Pendragon boys were Dumbledore's nephews, and they adored him. In fact, it was their glowing experience with Lupin that put Dumbledore in mind of hiring Lupin for Hogwarts. Lupin turned toward Harper, wondering if he knew any of this, but saw only his barrister hastily scribbling down something on a long length of parchment.

"What other observations have you made about Lupin's employment record?"

"There have been long gaps between jobs. It would appear that Mr. Lupin did not seek employment for long stretches of time."

But he had sought employment – it was another story to be given it.

"If he did not seek employment, what other options did the defendant have to survive?"

"Objection," Harper cut in. "Speculation."

"Overruled." Colbert frowned. He was slowly twisted his beard around on one long, skeletal finger, thinking deeply. "Continue."

Parsons replied, "He could have taken other, possibly criminal tasks in order to survive. It is very common among arrested wolves."

Borden took this as a positive sign. "Do you believe, in your expert opinion, that Mr. Lupin has been involved in any criminal acts in the past?"

"From my experience, most wolves have confessed to petty crimes, usually theft, fraud, and assaults."

"Thank you. Detective, in light of all the testimony you have given today, what kind of person do you believe Mr. Lupin to be?"

"From my observations, I believe that Mr. Lupin is not capable of holding a job, for deep-seated reasons that got him rejected from both the wizarding and the Muggle worlds."

"What reasons can there be?"

"There is his condition, certainly, but I have seen werewolves become integrated in Muggle society with little difficulty."

Lupin thought of the poor wolves of the London Safehouse, driven into homelessness and rejection. There was no place for the werewolf in any society.

Borden continued his examination with the precision of a sniper. Question after question after damning question. Parsons and the prosecutor tag-teamed to gather more information condemning Lupin than he could ever have imagined. Little details about his past were suddenly magnified into suspicion. Did he have a permanent residence? Why had he left that flat or cottage or town? Was there any record of his whereabouts for the previous five years? What about the previous ten? What were his funds at Gringotts bank? How could have they not changed for a string of eight years? How did he attain funds for survival? What did Mr. Remus Lupin do during those unrecorded, forgotten years?

The web that Borden tried to weave was obvious: without stale employment or residence, Mr. Lupin must have been doing something questionable, possibly even illegal, while he lurked under the Ministry radar for years. Mr. Lupin was a master at disappearing. Mr. Lupin can go in and out without a trace. Mr. Lupin, despite having such a clean-cut record, might not be the cleanest person after all.

And Mr. Lupin did have an unusual interest in working with children, didn't he?

At the end, Borden took a deep breath, as if enjoying a refreshing spring morning, and put his hands behind his back. "Thank you. The prosecution is finished with our questioning." Borden sat down and took a long drink of cold water from the pitcher on the desk.

The Committee did not show any reactions throughout the entire ordeal. It was as if they had seen the same case played out every week, and the looks of disinterest gave Lupin an uncomfortable feeling that Borden didn't convince them. _Perhaps,_ he thought with a queasy feeling, _they didn't need to be convinced at all._

Colbert waved a dismissive hand. "Mr. Harper, you may proceed with the cross-examination."

Harper nodded and got up, with the parchment in hand. All his initial anxiety had melted away by now; there was an odd glint in his dark eyes that Lupin had never noticed before. It was the look of solid determination.

"Detective Parsons, have you ever interrogated Mr. Lupin?"

"No, I had not."

"Did you ever speak with Mr. Lupin?"

"No, I-"

"Thank you. Detective, have you even _seen_ Mr. Lupin in person before this trial?"

Parsons paused. "No," he admitted.

"So all of your observations concerning Mr. Lupin are only based on evidence you had collected?"

Borden waved a casual hand. "Objection. Badgering the witness."

"Overruled." Colbert took a sip. It was as if he were watching a cricket match on a summer afternoon. "Please go on, Mr. Harper."

"Thank you, your Lord." Harper turned to officer. "You stated that you had interrogated many werewolves for your cases. Were all of these suspect interrogations?"

Again, Parsons hesitated. "There had been some witness ones as well."

There was a strange expression on Harper's face, one mixed with righteousness and hesitance. At that moment, Lupin knew that he had been talking with Claire before the trial, and she had told him something very important. "When was the last time you held a witness interrogation?"

"I don't remember."

"For an experienced detective who had garnered so many observations from other past interrogations, why can't you recall your last one?"

"I have dealt with dozens of cases simultaneously at times," the detective spat. "I can't possibly recollect all of them."

"But you could recollect enough to form expert opinions, could you?"

"Objection!" Now Borden was standing. "Relevance, your Lord!"

"Overruled."

"Please tell the court when your last witness interrogation was."

"Your Lord-!" Borden started, but Colbert cut him off with a smooth, "Overruled. Please, Detective Parsons, answer Mr. Harper's question."

"It was… in November, I believe. The 21st."

"And who were you interrogating?"

"Mr. Harper, it was months ago-"

"But you came up with the date. You must remember more."

"Her name was Madame Claire de Chien-Loup." Parsons gave a shrug. "No one significant."

"But why were you interrogating her?"

"My memory's hazy-"

"Remember the oath you had taken, Detective Parsons. Are you sure your memory is hazy?"

Parsons folded his hands together and placed them on the railing before him. "She was the owner of the London Safehouse, where Mr. Lupin and Ms. Grisham had stayed for a couple of months."

"So, wasn't Madame de Chien-Loup very significant to your case?"

"I don't know."

"You, senior detective, would not think a very important witness in a case as significant?"

"I don't know." Parsons said quickly. He blocked the only way one could on the stand: by faking ignorance.

"But did you interrogate Madame de Chien-Loup on the 21st?"

"Yes, I did."

"So you remember having contact with her?"

"My memory may be a bit fuzzy, but yes."

"And you spoke with her about the Lupin case? Yes or no please."

"Yes, but-"

"Thank you." Harper drew a set of photographs. "Detective, does the RMC provide medical care for people retained there for questioning?"

Parsons stumbled. "Yes… The Registry does."

"And whenever someone has an injury, is there a Healer on-duty to examine any health complaints a person in custody might have?"

"Yes…"

Harper pulled out two photographs from his briefcase. They did not appear to move, but only because they had been close-up shots of a person's arms. Large dark bruises were found along the wrists and shoulders. They were slim, as if someone had held them too tightly.

"These are photographs taken by the Healer on duty on November 22nd, when Madame de Chien-Loup complained of headaches causes by her cell conditions. These bruises were found on her forearms and shoulders."

"Those could have happened during her transformation," Parsons spat. "I hold no responsibility for these injuries."

"It had been almost a full week since the full moon had already passed by November 21st. Would you say that these bruises are, then, fresh?"

Parsons' mouth twitched, but his eyes burned.

"Answer the question, Detective."

After a few moments, Head of the Committee Colbert pressed, "Answer him, Detective."

"They would appear to be," Parsons answered through gritted teeth.

"Thank you." Harper turned away to put the photographs back on the table; Lupin saw that he was smirking. "That would be all, Your Lord."

Colbert nodded. "You may take leave-" he started, but Parsons already left his place on the stand and stormed down the aisle. With the flick of his wand, the doors swung open and within the minute, he was gone.

The Committee murmured amongst themselves before Colbert gave them a cutting glance for silence. "Mr. Borden," Colbert said sternly. "Please remind Detective Parsons about testimony procedures in the courtroom."

Borden, who suddenly turned quite red in the face, spluttered, "Yes, Your Lord," from his seat. He took out a handkerchief, mopped his brow, which had grown quite sweaty during the cross-examination, and took a terse sip from his cup. Suddenly, the darkness from his face vanished. He grandly rose to his feet.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the Committee, I would like to call my next witness," Borden turned his head toward to doorway and extended his hand. The prosecutor looked at Lupin for a moment and flashed a smile before turning away. Lupin felt his heart jump for a moment out of fear of certainty. She was here at Nemesis Courthouse. He faced the other side of the cage and calmly tucked his hands in his pockets, trying to retain his composure.

The double-doors opened, and a small figure dressed in pale green robes stepped into the threshold. A taller woman, presumably a social worker, stood by her side.

_Exactly like I remember_, Lupin thought. He resisted the urge to cling to the bars but peered through them to see her face more clearly.

Borden asked, "Would Ms. Mary Grisham please come to the stand?"

_Wolf by Ears_ will continue…

End Notes:

I hope you have enjoyed this new part! This has been one of the hardest sections to write in the story, and I wish it to be worth all the time and effort. Thank you all so much for your constant encouragement through e-mails and reviews as well as your patience during these long interludes between updates.

Unfortunately, it will be some time before I can update WbE again (you might be used to this anyways, though. -). I will be traveling overseas for the next several months and I will have limited access to internet and computers. For my journey, I'm resorting to square one and bringing lots of journals with me for writing. I'm hoping to write Part 12 while abroad and post it as soon as possible. Thank you all for your support and patience. Feel free to contact me via reviews and e-mail. Take care, and keep on reading!

- D.M.P.

August 2, 2005


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